


Forward Until Dawn

by DragonHeartstring360



Series: Cullen x Margo Trevelyan [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Triggers, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-03-23 15:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13790544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonHeartstring360/pseuds/DragonHeartstring360
Summary: When Margo Trevelyan is thrust into the role of Herald of Andraste, it seems like the Fade isn't the only thing ripping at the seams. The Inquisitor must navigate her present while desperately trying to leave her past behind and allow herself to heal and be loved--particularly by a former Templar facing similar issues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This follows my canon Inquisitor Margo’s life throughout the events of the game, focusing heavily on her relationship with Cullen. I’ll probably add other characters in there, too, to show her developing friendships and that sort of thing. The rating for this fic will eventually be moved up, since it deals with some really heavy issues. I’m still working some parts of Margo’s backstory out, but I’ll put a trigger warning and let you guys know in plenty of time. There’s a trigger warning on this chapter for the mention of physical, mental and sexual abuse. I also want to clarify I’m not trying to romanticize abuse or mental illness in any way. The trigger warning will mainly be referring to when Margo does finally explain parts of her past and the depression and anxiety it caused, but this story is about healing. Like any healing process, there are rough patches along the way, so there will be very dark parts to this story and you are in no way obligated to read if that’s something that makes you uncomfortable. I love all of you and hope you all find the love and healing you need, as you all deserve it.

“What have you found?” Cullen asked.

Leliana emerged from the shadows of the make-shift council room they’d set up in Haven’s Chantry, her hands folded behind her back. “Very little.” The spymaster glanced at the commander and ambassador, the Seeker on her heels. “Our Lady Herald is the fifth child of Bann and Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick and the only mage that’s been in the family for decades. She was sent to the circle at just ten years old.” She paused, taking her usual spot next to Cullen. “There is…something else.”

The others waited with baited breath. Leliana was hardly one to show emotion, but when she did, it was never a good sign. Her blue-grey eyes turned sad and her face drooped in worried lines.

“She spent six years in the Valari Circle,” Leliana finally continued, “before it crumbled to the ground. She’s one out of three mages and two Templars to survive the carnage of what happened there.”

Cassandra sighed. “I feared as much. The Seekers received reports of the incident—at least, what we could tell had happened from the outside, after the fact. All the survivors disappeared for some time. When they did resurface years later, the reports they gave were kept under lock and key. Only the senior Seekers and Lord Seeker Lucius know the full account.”

“Which brings me to our next problem,” Nightingale continued. “These full reports have been…difficult to obtain, even for my agents. When Cassandra says the full reports are kept under the tightest lock and key, she means it.”

“This might be something we need to formally request,” Josephine suggested. “Or perhaps the Herald herself could help in obtaining them. It _would_ be her account, after all.”

“Do we have time to jump through all those hoops to get them?” Cullen finally spoke up. “Determining what happened at Valari could tell us how trustworthy she is now. Or if she had a hand in the explosion at the Conclave or if she really is innocent.”

“She is,” Cassandra said with surprising conviction. “If she did play a part in the explosion, I do not think it was done knowingly or willingly. There were multiple times she could have harmed me, staff or no, and she did agree to come willingly. Even now, she battles for her life at an attempt to seal the Breach. I do not think someone who planned to plunge the world into chaos would risk so much to undo their work.”

Leliana nodded in agreement, taking a slight step forward. “There are several rumors about what transpired at the Valari Circle that have been confirmed by several official sources. We know that Lady Trevelyan was sent to Valari Circle, instead of the one at Ostwick by her father, for reasons I’m currently trying to find out. What little information I have merely points to prejudice against mages.”

Cullen didn’t miss the slight flicker of the spymaster’s eyes towards him during that last sentence. He clutched the pommel of his sword tighter. He debated on saying something in his defense; he was so desperately trying to leave that version of him behind in Kirkwall. But before he could say anything, she pressed on.

“We know the Templar Ser Rucmund Vako assumed the title of Knight-Commander after the real Knight-Commander Judith became sick quickly and died under rather mysterious circumstances, as did her Knight-Captain. Which would have made Vako the next in line to become Knight-Commander, except for the rumored use of poison by him and several of his friends within the Order. We know mages and female Templars alike were abused—physically, mentally, even sexually—within it’s walls, but somehow Vako managed to drive the Seekers away. Or at least give such a good show of normalcy that no one questioned anything until it was too late. We know the fortress became overrun with demons during the last Blight and that the Herald and the two other mages that survived were instrumental in the demons’ downfall. It’s believed that’s part of the reason why the fortress collapsed: there were too many demons for three mages and two Templars to take on, so the mages targeted old fractures in the lower levels of the Circle that led into the foundation, causing the majority of it to crumble to the ground.

“This is where it gets tricky: we’re not sure what happened to any of the mages afterwards. Or the Templars, for that matter. The Herald disappeared for quite some time, until she was apprehended by Templars four years later and taken to the Ostwick Circle, where she resided until the mage rebellion broke out and Ostwick’s Circle fell to the rebel mages. I believe after that, she ran again and set up somewhere along the coast in the Free Marches until she showed up at the Conclave.”

“On the side of the rebel mages or the loyalists?” Josephine asked.

“I believe,” Cassandra interrupted, “Divine Justinia wanted everyone who survived the Valari Circle there. She mentioned how they could be invaluable to the peace talks and encouraging productive change that would benefit mages as well as everyone else.”

Leliana nodded. “She mentioned something of that effect to me as well. I’ve put together a report of everything I’ve just told you and will update it as more information comes in.”

“Couldn’t we just ask her when she wakes?” Cullen asked. He didn’t like how they were treating her like an object to be investigated instead of a person. He’d never met her before and for all he knew, she might be the stereotypical haughty noble (however, given her background at Valari, he doubted it) and might refuse to tell them anything either way. He’d heard a rumor or two back in Kirkwall, but had never paid them much mind; his usual take on any type of rumors. Even the vague facts Leliana had confirmed made his heart ache. To know that his brothers and sisters had abused their power so thoroughly for so long, on so helpless a population… It reminded him of things he should’ve done and only affirmed his choice to leave the order. The Inquisition could make a difference with more than just the Breach, if they had a mind.

The group quickly finished up and filed out of the war room. As Cullen made his way outside, the sun overhead reflected on his vambrace. He glanced down, his eye catching on the flaming Templar sword etched into the metal. He grimaced as he thought of Valari again and the atrocities the Templars had committed there. As he stopped to oversee the recruits’ training on a hill, he crossed his arms, hiding the symbol from view.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angst in this one, but this is the first fluffy moment between Margo and Cullen. It gets a bit more angsty after this, since their sleep deprivation was making them both a little braver, but here you guys go. Hope you're all having a great day. Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.

Echoes of the pain swirled, dark and deep as her mind slowly drifted. Hazy recollections of running, of the screeching of demons, of the Valari Circle crashing down around her ears, of scrambling and sprinting to escape the stones that came barreling towards her and the others, of the fierce need to protect the one Templar that was ever kind to her within the circle’s walls—of fear, of death, of dread, of defilement, of echoes of pain in the dark—

Margo’s eyes snapped open to stare at the dark ceiling. The fire crackled quietly in the hearth next to her bed, providing meagre light to the small one-room house the ambassador had set up for her. It was a nice place and quiet—she would have to remember to thank Josephine tomorrow.

She rolled onto her side and wiped at the light sweat that had gathered along the back of her neck, throwing the covers off. Despite the fire, Haven’s chilly air crept through the windows. Any cold sweat from the nightmare quickly disappeared, but she still felt too warm. She rolled to face the wall, bunching her brown hair up on the pillow behind her to keep it off her neck. As soon as she closed her eyes, visions of the Valari Circle exploded behind her lids in vivid colors. Too vivid. Too much. She huffed an aggravated sigh before yanking on her shoes and marching out the door into the cold night, her cloak barely an afterthought. She hadn’t even been in Haven for twenty-four hours—at least, not while conscious—and she already felt antsy. She hated feeling watched and chaperoned. She felt more like a prisoner here than a savior.

She carefully picked her way among the streets of Haven, keeping her head low and avoiding patrols, despite the fact that she wouldn’t be shoved back into the Circle Tower if she was caught. Not that Ostwick was horrible; it had been more of a home for her than most places she’d been. The other mages and even the Templars there had been kind. It was a much-needed exhale after the hell of Valari. But she’d spent four years on the run afterwards, before Bann Trevelyan had tricked her into coming back to Ostwick only to find suits of armor awaiting her return. Those years with mercenary Captain Felix MaCrone had left her with good memories. He treated her more like a daughter than the bann ever had—and, if certain rumors were to be believed, he maybe even _was_ her father. Her mother and Bann Kedric Trevelyan were an arranged marriage and there _had_ been an affair at some point… She shook her head and focused on the snow crunching under her feet as she slipped out of the small village towards the lake.

* * *

 

Cullen awoke with a start, gasping and clutching his thin blanket to his heaving chest. One night—just _one night_ without nightmares of Kinloch was all he wanted. He _needed_ it, almost as much as his body cried with need for the blue bottle stuffed somewhere in the trunk at the foot of his cot. He squeezed his eyes shut and whispered to himself in the darkness: “ _No_.”

 _Think of something else_ , he commanded himself. _Think of ANYTHING else_ … His mind immediately went to the Herald, as it had been doing most of the day. As soon as she’d stepped into the war room, he’d felt the blush crawl up his neck to the tips of his ears. He’d averted his eyes quickly, only to glance at her again a moment later. His face must’ve betrayed him, since she’d given him a small smile. Then her eyes had fallen to the symbol etched into his vambrace and her lips turned down. He’d felt a twisting in his gut and looked down for good this time, only looking back up when Cassandra started introducing them all. Leliana was still struggling to find out about the Lady Herald. Why she couldn’t just _ask_ , he didn’t know. She seemed more than willing to be open and show that she had nothing to hide. She’d even told everyone at the meeting that she was something called a Minrathi—a descendant of elite, powerful mages that preceded the Tevinter Imperium. Hence the name Minrathous. She wasn’t all-powerful by any means, but more powerful than the average mage and could wield magic just as well without a staff. Which had only proved Cassandra’s point: she could’ve seriously harmed or killed anyone at any time and ran if she’d wanted to, but she hadn’t. Why would someone who caused the Breach stay and help and be so open like she was?

Her looks didn’t harm her either. She was a beautiful woman, her blue-green eyes crashing into him like an ocean and her brown hair falling over her left shoulder, the right portion by her ear shaved. A small black tattoo under her right eye had only accentuated their brightness. They’d only just met and already, he could hardly keep his eyes off of her.

He was hot again, but now for another reason.  He growled as he yanked boots over his bare feet, not even bothering with socks. He needed air _now_ —and to stop acting like a blushing teenage boy who couldn’t control his desires. She was the Herald and a mage. He was just a broken Templar, something she’d definitely noticed when she’d looked at his vambrace with disappointment. Plus, he’d never even had a conversation with her. What was wrong with him?

He shrugged a light jacket over his white linen shirt that he’d slept in. As overheated as he was, he needed to feel the cold. He might regret it on the walk back, but so be it. He ran a hand through his wild curls and stepped out into the frigid air. The wind blew the tent flap right back in his face and he sputtered, slapping it away. He thought he heard a soft giggle, but when he looked again, no one was in sight. Wait, no—there _was_ someone, cloaked, heading towards the main gate. On instinct, he reached back into his tent and strapped his sword around his waist. He quietly began trailing them, but soon recognized the green, slightly battered cloak: the Herald. She had worn it into the meeting earlier and seemed rather attached to it, despite how “ratty” it was by noble standards.

All sorts of things raced through his mind as he followed her out the gate: was she leaving them all to their fate? Was she really guilty and had just been putting on a show earlier? Was she taking her chance to leave now? Or maybe she was afraid.

Her pace was leisurely as she made her way around a well-worn path through a patch of trees. An owl hooted overhead as she continued around the lake just a short walk outside of Haven. Not even ten minutes later, he slowed as she settled herself on the old pier above the frozen lake, swinging her feet where they hung off the edge. A small patch of the lake remained untouched by the frost, likely due to the small bout of warmer weather they’d had that afternoon. The Herald seemed content to watch the lake before grabbing a nearby rock and skipping it across the unfrozen part of the water—well, _trying_ to skip. The way she held her wrist was all wrong and the rock plunked into the lake with no success. She sighed in irritation before settling back to just watching her surroundings.

Cullen’s boot crunched a twig too late, the quiet _snap_ deafening in the silence. The Herald whipped around, her hood falling from her shoulders with the quick motion. He could see her right hand charged with lightening, spitting and lighting up the bottom half of her face in prepared defense. He raised his hands in surrender and the bolt sputtered out.

“Forgive me, my lady—”

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “I saw you come out of the gate behind me. I just didn’t know if you were someone else.” She paused, not quite meeting his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on running.”

“You are not a prisoner here, even if you were,” he said, trying to make his tone as soft and reassuring as possible.

She snorted, turning back towards the lake. “And leave the Breach to swallow the world? _That_ would make for a good night’s sleep.”

Cullen hesitantly took several steps closer, standing barely a foot behind her. He was unsure how to proceed. She’d just shown she was more than capable of defending herself, but the thought of leaving her alone in the dark made his stomach churn. Because she was the only one who could close rifts, of course. Right? Of course. But did she even _want_ him out here with her? She’d been watched—and abused—by Templars her whole life. She probably didn’t want one creepily standing behind her now. But would she think him rude for leaving? He withheld a groan. Why was he making this so complicated? He rubbed at the back of his neck as he pondered his next move.

“Did you have nightmares, too?” she asked. He could barely hear her and had to step closer and lean in to know what she was saying. She glanced back up at him as he did so and scooted over a few inches on the pier.

Surprised, but pleased at the invitation, he settled down next to her. It was a tight squeeze for two, forcing him to forgo the appropriate amount of distance between them. He hoped the moonlight didn’t reveal much of his blush. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck again, hiding behind his elbow until the heat in his face abated. “Yes,” was all he could manage, unwilling to go in depth.

She nodded, staring out at the lake. The wind played with her hair and she seemed content to just enjoy the quiet. Cullen followed her gaze to see two deer lingering at the far edge of the lake.

“Is this a usual haunt for you?” he asked, then winced at how interrogative—how Templar-like—he sounded.

She eyed him cautiously before nodding. “It’s quiet out here. It helps me think. Or just unwind.”

Hoping to undo any possible damage from earlier, he added, “I had a similar place when I was a child, where I grew up.”

She turned to him. “Where did you grow up?”

“Honnleath.” He smiled at the memory. How he missed his home—his parents, his siblings. He hadn’t spoke to Mia, Branson or Rosalie in years. How could he? He was closer now to the boy he was when he left home, but they would’ve hardly recognized him merely months ago. “You’re from the Ostwick Circle, yes?” He winced, wondering if that might bring up any painful memories. From what he’d heard, Ostwick was a mostly sedate circle, but what if his comment spurred memories of the time before?

“Yes, I was there for a while…and of course, you and the others know about Valari.” Her face fell and she avoided his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right. Ostwick was more of a home for me than anywhere else, minus my aunt’s farm. I was at the Ostwick Circle for…” she paused to count, “eight years? Yes, eight.”

“Your aunt has a farm?” Surely, her aunt was a noble. She _was_ a Trevelyan, after all.

She laughed nervously, shoving her hands into the pockets of her cloak. “I usually tell people she’s a family friend, to avoid confusion or long explanations…I suppose I’m tired and it slipped, but…she ran off and married a Fereldan farmer. You can imagine how _that_ went over with my grandparents.”

Cullen smiled at her eyeroll. Beginning to feel more relaxed, he leaned back with his hands behind him.

“The family disowned her,” her mouth twisted in disgust now. “Ridiculous…But, anyway, my mother kept in contact with her and she and I would sneak away for a week or two sometimes to spend it with her and her husband, Patrick, and their children.” She smiled. “Patrick’s hilarious. I have good memories of that place.”

“Did you work on the farm at all?” he couldn’t resist asking, genuinely curious.

“I did. Took while to get milking the cows right. I accidentally shot a steady stream of milk right in my cousin’s face.” She laughed. “I’m not quite sure if he ever recovered. I’ve never heard the end of it.”

Cullen chuckled. “Cows can be tricky. I grew up on a farm and had my fair share of projectile milk.”

She laughed again and Cullen found himself scrambling for something witty to say, just to hear it again. He came up short and the two fell into a comfortable silence. Normally, he would’ve been a nervous mess. Perhaps his exhaustion was giving him courage. Or how easy she was to talk to. She was quiet and never seemed to say anything without gentle prodding first, from what he could tell of his few hours of knowing her. But he was enjoying his time with her now, away from the responsibilities of the Inquisition. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to shed the commander and just be Cullen until now.

He saw her glance at a rock on the ground near the middle of the pier. She reached out to grasp it, glanced at him and then pulled her hand away, likely remembering her failed attempt from earlier.

“You have to bend your wrist right,” Cullen leaned over and grabbed the rock, his chest brushing her back as he did so. Where was this courage coming from? It had to be exhaustion. He wasn’t usually this smooth, he was well aware. “Like this…” He did a mock throw a few times, her eyes following his movements. He finally let the rock go and it skipped over the water a few times before landing on the ice.

She turned and scanned the area for another rock. One sat several feet out of reach. Just as he was about to fetch it for her, she held out her hand and the rock zipped into her palm. Cullen couldn’t help but tense at her unexpected use of magic. Perhaps he wasn’t as far along with healing as he thought.

She was staring at him with a mixture of caution and sadness when he met her eyes again. _It isn’t your fault_ , he wanted to say, but the words caught in his throat. She set the stone down between them on the pier and avoided his eyes, shoving her hands in her pockets again. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

 _Say something, Rutherford!_ “It’s…” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Like I said, you’re no prisoner here.”

“But you’re a Templar.” Her gaze widened as the words slipped out of her mouth, likely without her meaning for them to.

“ _Ex_ -Templar,” he corrected. He wished he was better with words. That he could convey that she shouldn’t be ashamed of herself, that it would just take him some time, that he was broken. “And you truly didn’t do anything wrong, just…things have…happened, in my past and I—” He sighed. He wasn’t ready to tell her by a long shot. He hardly knew her. Just like how she probably wouldn’t reveal any details of her past to him for awhile yet and he didn’t expect her to. She wasn’t obligated to and could keep her secrets from him forever if she wished.

He felt the gap between them widening, undoing all the work they’d just done to bridge it. Desperate to keep as much of the bridge intact, he picked up the rock and held it out to her, trying for a smile. “Aren’t you going to try it?”

She gave him a small smile in return, letting him drop the rock into her palm. She bent her wrist and, without thinking, he reached over to correct her. “No, more like this.” Her gloved hand was small in his own, dwarfed by his larger ones. He could feel himself blushing and quickly retracted his hold, instead motioning the correct way with his own hand, avoiding her eyes.

She did a few warm-up, mock throws before finally letting go. It wasn’t perfect; she only got two skips out of it, but it was better than last time.

“There!” She turned to him, her face glowing and satisfied.

He couldn’t help but smile at how proud she was of such a small feat. He had to admit, it was…dare he say _cute_. If a woman who could set him on fire if she wished and close rifts be referred to as cute. He turned, quickly hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you,” she said.

“It’s all right. We should both go back. The Herald of Andraste needs her rest, too.”

She scoffed as they stood. “Margo is fine.”

Feeling how her name fit on his tongue was tempting, but she was still deserving of the respect of rank. Maybe, one day…but he could feel the commander slowly slipping back on, as much as he might want to keep him at bay for just a few more minutes. “I’m afraid I must insist, Lady Trevelyan.”

Her face fell a little. “Oh. I understand.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment before he asked, “May I walk you back to your quarters?”

She nodded. “I’d like that.”

The small trek was filled with idle chat of anything but the Inquisition and the tear in the sky. Cullen couldn’t have been happier for it. She was an intelligent woman; gentle, but strong at the same time and a little unsure of herself at times. He sensed there was more hiding beneath the surface and wanted to know what it was, but refrained in case he stirred any painful memories. Maker knew he had a slew of his own. But maybe if they got to know each other slowly…

They reached her quarters all too quickly and he bid her goodnight, bowing slightly. “My lady.”

She smiled. “Goodnight, Commander.”

He slipped back into his tent, feeling far lighter than before, testing her name as a whisper in the dark and falling asleep with a smile on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me such a long time :( I finished spring semester of college and launched straight into accelerated summer classes, so things are still a little hectic. But here you guys go ^^ Thanks for the read and enjoy. Hope you guys have a great weekend.

Margo’s foot caught on a rock and she stumbled, catching herself before she could fall. She simultaneously cursed and praised the moonless night. No one seemed to have seen the illustrious “Herald” being a clutz, at least. She winced as the movement jarred the wound she’d received during their expedition in the Hinterlands. Although their trek had been cut short due to the large gash adorning her side, they’d closed more than a few rifts, helped the refugees and local farmers and were beginning construction of the watchtowers. Soon, hopefully, Dennett and his horses would be on their way.

She hesitated at the door to The Singing Maiden. Varric had insisted she join them tonight, to “celebrate not dying yet.” She could hear the ruckus before she even opened the door. So many eyes were on her constantly; did she even _want_ a crowded tavern staring at her the entire time she was in there?

Before she could make a decision, the door swung open. Lysette, the Templar that had begrudgingly greeted her earlier, halted in surprise. Several other recruits trailed behind her. “My Lady Herald,” she said flatly, her face morphing into an expression Margo couldn’t quite read. Disgust? Annoyance? Both? “I’m sorry, I was just heading out.”

She nodded, keeping her head down with a muttered, “Sorry.” She quickly stepped out of the way and Lysette rushed past her without so much as a glance. The recruits nodded as they trailed behind her, leaving the door open for her behind them. She glanced inside—nearly every chair was full, but the most crowded table, by far, was Varric’s. He was surrounded by a ring of recruits and was talking animatedly. They all stared with rapt attention, bursting into laughter a moment later. Probably one of his stories; she’d learned while they were in the Hinterlands that he had the best tales. Whether or not every part of them was _true_ was another matter, but they were still entertaining. She’d started a hesitant friendship with her party—even Cassandra—but it was harder now, when the room was so crowded.

Barely a seat away from Varric, Cassandra and Cullen sat hunched close to each other, discussing something Margo could only guess at. Solas was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t surprise her. He didn’t seem like one to frequent loud taverns. Neither was she, really, but Varric had been _very_ insistent. But he was so caught up in his storytelling, surely he wouldn’t notice if she just escaped back to her quarters—

“ _Pockets!_ ” his voice cried over the din. “You made it!” He gave her a toothy grin and patted an empty seat between himself and the commander.

She withheld a groan—so much for _that_ plan—but couldn’t help smiling at the nickname she’d recently earned. She carefully made her way over to the table, but most of the other tavern-goers were so absorbed in their own conversations that they barely noticed her, much to her relief. She glanced at Cullen as she sat beside him, giving him a small smile. The scar on his lip quirked as he bashfully returned the gesture, quickly looking away. She thought she could see his ears turn pink in the dim light. Out of the usual armor and fur mantle, he looked much more vulnerable. A plain white shirt and maroon-colored jacket hugged his arms and chest. She thought back to the other night by the lake, avoiding his gaze when she remembered how…forthcoming she’d been. She was hardly ever that talkative around someone she didn’t know well, much less someone who could’ve possibly hated her and was clearly uncomfortable with magic. It must’ve been how tired she was…and how much less intimidating (and handsome) he looked out of uniform.

“You arrived just in time,” Varric elbowed her uninjured side and wiggled his eyebrows. “This is the best part.” He turned back to the recruits and continued his tale. A few of them looked at her apprehensively, but were soon distracted by the dwarf next to her. As he continued his tale, he waved over a waitress, grabbed a mug of ale off her tray and plunked it down in front of Margo. Several eyes from other tables were glancing at Margo now and she felt herself begin to sweat in the tight space. She grabbed her ale and eagerly took a large gulp.

“So, um…” Cullen began softly next to her.

She turned to find he’d leaned closer so she could hear him. Her throat made a rather undignified sound as she swallowed a large mouthful of ale. He rubbed at the back of his neck and turned away for a moment. She did the same, sure he’d heard her gulp as close as he was. She bit her lip and fingered the rim of her mug, holding her breath as she waited for him to continue. Maker’s Balls, _why_ did there have to be so many damn people in here? She shot a quick glare at Varric, who met her eyes. He nodded towards Cullen behind her and raised his mug, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Cullen’s voice drew her attention back to him. A few strands of hair had escaped his careful styling and several spots were beginning to curl. She couldn’t help but wonder what his hair looked like in all its curly disarray. “I’d heard you were injured in the Hinterlands…Are you all right?”

“Yes, just a wound on my side.” She gestured to the side of her torso closest to Cullen. “The healers said it should heal up fine as long as I don’t do anything to bust open the stitches.”

He nodded. “You should take it easy. You did good work in the Hinterlands and a lot of it in such a short time. You deserve a rest.” He paused, eyeing the area she’d gestured too as if assessing her wound through her shirt. “How did it happen?”

“We were on our way back from closing a rift. It was towards the end of the day and most of my mana was drained. On the way back, in the bushes, some mages and templars were waiting to ambush each other and we got caught in the middle of it. I didn’t have enough mana to throw a barrier up in time and one of the templars caught me with his sword. I think he thought I was with the rebels because of my staff.”

Cullen winced. “You _are_ going back to have it looked at, yes?”

She cracked a mischievous smile as she brought her mug to her lips. “Yes, Mother.”

He chuckled, returning his attention to his own drink. “You know what I meant.”

She smiled, vaguely hearing Varric’s tale in the background. She heard her and her party members’ names come up several times and wondered how much the dwarf was embellishing their time in the Hinterlands. She shoved her hands in her pockets once more, a nervous habit since childhood. Otherwise, she would fidget endlessly whenever she became nervous—something she was constantly reprimanded for as a child. She may not have been treated like she was part of the Trevelyan family—even though the bann and her mother insisted she was fully theirs to the public—but damn if they didn’t make sure she acted like one. She turned to find Cullen nursing his own drink, conversing casually with Cassandra next to him. She opened and closed her mouth several times, her nerves getting the better of her. The tavern seemed to only become louder by the minute and projecting her voice wasn’t one of her strong suits.

She continued to nurse her ale, half listening to Varric’s story and half trying to hear what the commander and seeker were saying. Several times, Cassandra lowered her voice and leaned closer to the him. Margo felt a stab of jealously in her gut, despite no flirtation making itself known in the seeker’s bearing. Or was it? She couldn’t see Cullen’s face; he sat stiffly next to her, his arms folded on the table in front of him, his sips of alcohol becoming more frequent. She wondered if he was just as uncomfortable in this environment as she was…or maybe he was nervous because he had feelings for the powerful warrior next to him. They _were_ awfully close and Cassandra _was_ a striking woman…

She chugged the last of her ale and scooted her chair back more forcefully than she’d intended, resulting in a damning scrape.

Varric glanced up at her. “Where you going, Pockets? You’ve hardly been here twenty minutes!” He gestured towards the recruits in front of him. “You should help me tell this next one, considering you’re in it.” He winked.

“I…” She glanced at the hopeful faces of the recruits. None of them had moved an inch since she’d arrived. One boy in particular couldn’t have been older than fifteen and his eyes lit up at the idea of Varric and the Herald sharing a tale together. Margo forced a smile on her face. “Well, a good story needs some good drinks to go with it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Varric cried.

She turned towards the bar, but a deep baritone stopped her. “I’ll come with you.” She turned to see Cullen fall into step with her. She managed a nod, avoiding his gaze, as the two made their way towards the bar. Maker, why did she feel like a teenager who could hardly speak around him?

A man and a woman were behind the bar taking orders and looking rather frazzled with all the customers. The woman apologetically told them it might be a few minutes before they received their drinks, but Margo waved away her concerns. She hurried off to assist a rowdy group of recruits at the other end of the bar.

“So, um…” Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck and chuckled. He tried to hide behind his elbow, but she could see the tips of his ears turning pink in the dim torchlight. “How—how was Horsemaster Dennet?”

“He was…you know, fine.” Oh, sweet Andraste.

“Oh…well, that’s good. It’s good when people are—fine.”

She turned to her side so she was fully facing Cullen and hid her clammy hands in her pockets. His own shy response helped spur her bravery just enough. “He was gruff, but kind. I think you’d like him.”

He smiled. “Am I gruff, Herald?”

She smiled with ease for the first time since stepping into the tavern. “Just a little bit.” She held up two fingers with a little distance between them for emphasis.

He laughed and she felt the tension in her body slowly bleeding itself out. “I haven’t been back to Ferelden for…years. I don’t even know how many anymore, I lost count. Dennet’s farm sounds like where I grew up.”

“He reminded me of the stablemaster that worked on the Trevelyan estate. His name was Terc. He acted much the same as Dennet. He taught me some basic sword fighting, but I was young and I’m afraid I didn’t retain much of it. I wasn’t really allowed to practice either. ‘Noble lady’ shit and all that.” She paused. “Do you ever miss Ferelden?”

“Sometimes…” Sorrow washed over his features. “I’m…not the same person I was when I left though. I’m not quite sure if I’d fit there anymore to be honest.” The sad gleam left his eyes as he quickly changed the subject. “Can you sword fight at all?”

“Sort of. After Valari fell, when I was on the run, I was taught how but the swords always felt too big and bulky. I’m better with two long knives. I’m rusty with those, too, though.” She paused, watching the two workers behind the bar continue to bustle around. “Actually…” she looked down and played with a piece of lint in her pocket, “I was wondering…” She paused, glancing back at the table as several cries of surprise filled the air from Varric’s audience.

“Yes?” Cullen pressed.

She turned to face him. He hadn’t fully looked at her—at least not while they were at the bar—until now. She found herself swimming in the deep browns with rings of amber in his eyes, perfectly content to drown.

“Herald?”

“Um, sorry.” She pushed a stray hair away from her eye. “I was wondering if…maybe…I mean, I’m rusty on fighting with a blade and that won’t be the last time I’m in a fight with drained mana. I was wondering if, maybe, if you had the time—if not, it’s fine, I know you’re busy—”

“You want me to train you?”

“Well, more of a brush up, but…yes.” She hadn’t considered how training with him meant actually training _with_ him until now. He would see every blunder she would undoubtedly make. Maybe she should’ve asked Cassandra instead. She glanced back to find that the seeker had disappeared. Then why was Cullen still here? He couldn’t really be that interested in _her_ and he didn’t seem like any great friend of Varric’s.

Cullen rewarded her with a lopsided smile, his scar quirking his upper lip. “I’d be happy to. When would you like to start?”

“Um…tomorrow?”

He nodded. “It will have to be early, I’m afraid, since that’s really the only free time I have during the day. I doubt you’ll want to spar once it gets dark out.”

“Of course, that’s fine—”

A cry went up from the group at the bar next to them and someone shoved Cullen right up against Margo’s chest. He quickly turned his head away, but Margo needn’t have leaned even an inch to kiss his cheek if she’d wanted. She felt her hands grow ever clammier inside her pockets and Cullen’s face turned as red as the fur he usually wore. He bumped her in the process and her injured side hit the bar. She hissed in pain, causing Cullen to turn to her with worry. If he hadn’t been taller than her, they probably would’ve been kissing.

He whipped his head back around to the recruit who’d bumped him. The man paled when he realized he’d accidentally shoved his commander. “Watch it!” Cullen growled. The recruit muttered several apologizes before scampering off back into the crowd.

The whole situation was beginning to escalate in awkwardness and Margo could’ve kissed the woman who delivered their drinks. She avoided Cullen’s eyes—and she could tell he was avoiding hers—as she snatched her drink and scurried back to the table.

As she helped Varric tell his latest story, she noticed Cullen lingering by her side. He seemed as if he wanted to say something, but remained quiet, hovering protectively over her injury. The recruits peppered her with questions, likely aided with their liquid courage in their boldness. The attention and Cullen’s closeness heightened her nerves and it wasn’t long before she was nearly finished with her fourth, rather large, mug of alcohol. She wasn’t even sure what Varric had fetched her, but she _did_ know that life was greeeeaaaaaaatt. She hadn’t laughed this hard or this much in a long time. What she was laughing _at_ , she didn’t exactly know, but that didn’t matter. Varric and the recruits were laughing along with her and she could feel Cullen’s presence by her side.

The rest of the night was a blur of Varric’s stories and doing… _something_ with Cullen. She couldn’t quite remember. She was only concerned with the relief of her body hitting her bed, immediately surrendering to the call of sleep. Maker, she would regret this in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these updates keep taking so long. I'm wondering if I should just accept it as a curse of mine. Every time I go to write and post an update at a reasonable time, life gets in the way.

Margo wanted to swipe the smug grin off of Varric’s face the moment she saw him. “Almost noon, Pockets,” he crowed. “A little hungover, are we?”

“Just shut up,” she growled, plopping down on the log nearest the fire in response. Despite the thick snowflakes that had already produced nearly a foot of snow, the dwarf guarded his usual haunt loyally. It looked as if he’d even cleared some of the snow around the roaring campfire. Several others who she hardly bothered to glance at were huddled close for warmth as well. Margo hunched in on herself and shivered. She closed her eyes against the blinding brilliance of the surrounding snow, which only worsened the pounding in her head. Although the glass of water, bundle of herbs and pieces of bread left on her bedside table had helped. She wished she knew who put them there so that she could thank them properly once she was feeling better.

Letting her head sink towards her feet, she relished in the darkness behind her closed lids. Even if the wind was still a bit relentless. She had never been gladder for the copious amounts of thick clothes Josephine had provided her with. She concentrated on her breathing as the ground seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

The noise of a raucous group approaching caught her attention. Content to sit miserably by Varric’s fire, she didn’t look up until she felt something warm and solid being pressed into her hands. She barely had time to smile at the dwarf handing her tea—although in her state, it probably looked more like a grimace—before he turned to resuscitate his fire again. She squinted as a large black and red shape approached. It took several minutes before she recognized the commander approaching, his fur collar ruffling in the wind. His golden locks were unruly and several strands danced in front of his face. Every few seconds, he irritably pushed them away, becoming more and more irritated with them by the minute. As the recruits trailing behind him rushed to the warmth of the flames, Cullen merely stomped past, hardly giving her so much as a glance. Perhaps he just didn’t see her. Or perhaps something had happened last night…

Margo quickly yanked on Varric’s shirt sleeve.

“Careful, Pockets, you’ll spill your tea!” he protested as he nearly lost his footing. “And on _me_ , most likely—”

“What happened last night?” she hissed as Cullen’s soldiers scattered in different directions. However, a large group stayed and she recognized one of the young lads from the tavern last night. Did he remember her making a fool of herself—if that’s even what happened? What _did_ happen? Did she say or do something humiliating in front of Cullen or the rest of the tavern?

“Easy, Herald,” Varric soothed. “You were just the typical drunk. Nothing to worry about.” He chuckled. “It was kind of amusing. Didn’t know you could be so friendly and outgoing.”

She nearly choked on her tea. “Define ‘friendly and outgoing.’”

“Why don’t you ask Curly? He’s the one who walked you back to your quarters.” He turned to face her fully and gave her the biggest shit-eating grin she’d ever seen.

She mustered the most threatening glare she could. “Varric.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to sit on you.”

Varric sighed theatrically. “All right, all right. You were just throwing out compliments like nobody’s business and making sure everyone felt appreciated. Honestly, you probably wouldn’t have even _looked_ drunk at all if your words hadn’t been slurring like crazy. But, seriously, Curly _did_ walk you back to your quarters. So, if anything happened after that, I don’t know about it. Curly hasn’t said anything to me, but that’s hardly surprising. We’re not exactly best pals.”

“Do you think he would’ve told Cassandra?”

“Won’t know unless you ask, Pockets. I’ve got some things to do, but if I were you, I’d just go ask Curly himself. The worst he’ll do is blush.” He patted her forearm and made his way quietly out of the gathering ring of recruits.

Margo watched him leave for a moment, sighed, then drank her tea. She grimaced, staring at her mug with disdain. It had been a nice gesture, but the dwarf perhaps needed to stick with his stories versus his tea-making.

* * *

 

All the tension in Cullen’s muscles bled out with a heavy sigh as he fastened the front flap of his tent. He had been training unruly recruits all day—and in a near-blizzard, no less, but they needed to be prepared to fight in harsh conditions—dealing with Chancellor Roderick’s badgering, Josephine’s and Leliana’s constant fussing, Cassandra’s questions as to his health sprinkled throughout the day…Would it never end?

He pinched the bridge of his nose before moving his fingers upwards to massage out the growing headache. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d hardly eaten since breakfast. He’d barely eaten five bites of porridge in the mess—which was The Singing Maiden due to lack of space—before nausea caused by his lyrium withdraw had set in. He was surprised he’d even made it until noon without vomiting. He really needed to run to the tavern to grab some food before the staff started cleaning up, but…that stack of reports on his desk really wasn’t that big. Maybe he could get a few done while he waited for the crowd in the tavern to die down? He didn’t really fancy dealing with too many people at the moment.

He quickly removed the heavy plates across his body that were only adding to his aches and pains. He was proud of the progress he’d made on his reports when he heard a quiet knock on one of the outer poles of his tent. With several grumbles, he hauled himself out of his desk chair and unhooked the flap. The fabric flew open with a sudden gust of wind—and a body blew in along with them.

An “oof!” escaped him as someone slammed into his chest. His arms went to wrap around their torso on instinct as he staggered several steps back, hoping to keep them both upright. Once he caught his bearings, he glanced down to see the Herald staring up at him in surprise, her hair obscuring her face. He felt the blush all the way up to the tips of his ears as he let her go and took another step back. “Ah, um, Herald! I…wasn’t expecting you…” He rubbed at the back of his neck.

She smiled shyly. “Right, I’m sorry for…blowing in.”

He chuckled. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now, although I did have a massive headache thanks to whatever Varric gave me to drink last night.”

“Did the herbs help?”

She frowned, stuffing her hands into her pockets and shifting her weight. “How did you know about—” She shuddered as another gust of wind blew at her back, the tent flaps blowing to and fro behind her.

“Maker,” he muttered, suppressing his own shiver, “I’m sorry—” Quickly moving to secure the flaps in place, he turned to her again. Her eyes were almost a silvery-blue in the dim lighting of his tent, her thick hair in disarray from the weather. It wasn’t really wavy or straight; rather unruly in general, with some parts straighter than others. She tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing some curling strands on the underlayer. Without a trace of kohl, rouge or lipstick, she hardly looked like the noble Lady Trevelyan that she was and it captivated him.

“Commander?”

“Hmm?” he replied absentmindedly.

“How did you know about the herbs on my bedside table this morning?”

“What? Oh! Yes, well, um…” his hand was at the back of his neck again, “you were a little…worse for wear, I suppose you could say, when I walked you back to your quarters last night. So, I told some of the servants to, well, make sure you were looked after this morning…”

“Oh.” She glanced down at her feet, a small smile on her lips. “Well, thank you.” She hesitated. “That’s actually what I came to talk to you about…Last night, I don’t remember much, but um…” she stared at him hopefully, “did I—I mean, I didn’t do anything to…embarrass or make you uncomfortable, did I?”

He thought back to last night, which didn’t help the damned heat in his face _at all_. Of course, she hadn’t crossed any sort of line with anyone, him included, but she had been very friendly and a bit…well, _cuddly_ on the way back to her quarters. She’d clung to his torso like a child to its mother’s leg as he’d walked with her, letting him know how much she appreciated everything he was doing for the Inquisition. He’d had nowhere to put his arm other than around her shoulders, if only to make sure she stayed upright. Which had only made her cuddle into him _more_. However, one of her comments had stuck with him throughout the entire day: “Thank you for being such a nice Templar.” Just the memory still made him tense and an overwhelming wave of sorrow washed over him for the types of Templars Valari likely housed.

He met her eyes again, suddenly remembering she was still awaiting an answer. “No, of course not. I just wanted to make sure you returned to your quarters safely.” He omitted the various parts of the moonlit, snowy trek where she told him how handsome he was and how much she loved his “noodle-y hair.”

She studied him for a moment, but finally nodded and sighed. Her shoulders dropped in relief and he smiled reassuringly, glad she didn’t ask further questions. He just hoped she wouldn’t suddenly remember everything tomorrow morning.

His stomach growled suddenly, breaking the silence between them. Just as he was about to apologize, the Herald’s stomach replied in kind. They both stared at each other in horror for a moment before bursting out laughing. “I’m assuming you haven’t had dinner yet, either?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not. I got rather caught up in some reports.” He gestured to the table behind him. “Do you…I mean, we could go together…?”

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

He smiled in return, feeling his shoulders relax. After shrugging on a jacket, he followed her to the tavern in a companionable silence. Usually, when there was this much silence between him and another person, it was wrought with tension or discomfort. But with her, it felt more natural. It was so easy just to be in presence. She had a soothing quality that seemed to waft off her skin and quiet most of his anxious thoughts. The only reason they weren’t talking was because they simply didn’t need to, not because something was wrong. He couldn’t help relishing the feeling.

As they entered the tavern, the cook and several of the kitchen staff—who had taken over the bar area—glared at them. Several stragglers were finishing up their meals, but Cullen and the Herald appeared to be the only two who hadn’t yet been served. “Well, come on, then!” the cook barked. “We’re cleaning up in just a few minutes.”

After receiving their bowls of soup, slices of bread and drinks, Cullen followed the Herald as she drifted to a quiet, dimly lit corner of the tavern, away from the group of recruits still laughing and drinking over their last few bites of dinner at the large middle table. She seemed personable enough when she needed to be, but Cullen had noted multiple times that when given a choice, she would mostly keep to herself. As he settled into his chair across from her, he briefly wondered if she’d encountered any disdain for the fact that a mage had been selected as Andraste’s Chosen. He had noticed several encounters she’d had with the Templar Lysette that looked rather uncomfortable. Although he could never hear what was being said, the idea of someone bothering her solely for the fact that she could wield magic bothered him more than he thought it would.

“Thank you again,” she began, interrupting his thoughts, “for all the help last night.”

“Of course, my lady,” he replied with a smile. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he started eating. His stomach growled again and he began to eat with gusto. For now, the nausea was thankfully gone, but it could return at any time. It would be better to have something in his stomach before it reared its ugly head again, even if it meant his dinner came back up later.

He heard the Herald chuckle across from him. “I take it the soup’s good, then?”

He slowed and finally met her eyes, gulping down his last bite. Unable to think of a reply, he merely chuckled and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m afraid I got rather caught up in Inquisition matters most of the day.”

Her smile turned into a frown. “You _are_ eating enough, aren’t you? I didn’t notice you here around midday.”

“Of course. I’m fine, Herald, you don’t need to worry about me.” He shoved a bite of bread in his mouth before he could say anything else stupid. She had enough on her mind; the last thing she needed was to be worrying over his eating habits on top of everything else. Especially if Lysette or others were being rude…He wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure how to broach the topic smoothly.

Her mouth set in a grim line and he could tell she didn’t believe him. Nevertheless, she dropped the subject. “I’m sorry I missed our sparring session this morning. Last night, I forgot about the wound on my side, too. Perhaps we should wait another few days?”

He nodded. “I’d forgotten about it last night as well. You should wait until it’s healed properly before we spar. I don’t want to risk reopening it. And you don’t need to apologize.”

She took a quick sip from her drink. “Well, everyone probably doesn’t need to see me get drunk in a tavern, either. That might have been a poor choice on my part.”

He laughed. “The only recruits who were paying you any mind were just as drunk as you were, if not more. I don’t think half of them even remember.”

“Well, that’s a relief—”

The tavern door suddenly banged against the wall as several recruits made their way in, crossing their arms and rubbing their hands against the chill. The cook glared at them and the soldier at the front gave a sheepish “sorry” before gently shutting the door behind him. Cullen picked out Lysette among them. She nodded to him and he raised his drink slightly in reply. Her eyes shifted to his companion and she merely stared with an unreadable expression on her face. He glanced at the Herald to see her mirroring the Templar’s gaze, although there was a flash of insecurity in her eyes. Finally, she nodded shyly in greeting. Lysette merely narrowed her eyes and went to join her companions at the counter. The Herald sighed.

Cullen was quiet for a moment, then decided her comfort was much more important than his own. “I apologize if this is crossing any boundaries, but you haven’t been having any… _trouble_ with anyone, have you?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, well…I mean, no more trouble than I expected to have, I suppose.” Her sentence ended on a breathy, nervous laugh and she busied herself with her drink while her other hand flew into her pocket. She did that quite often. Cullen was beginning to understand Varric’s nickname for her.

“I only ask because I can have a talk with the recruits and Templars if you need me to. You need only ask.”

“Oh, no! I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Besides, I’m not that important—”

Cullen’s voice came out firmer than he meant it to. “Herald of Andraste or no, you’re still a leading figure of this Inquisition that has helped us make crucial decisions. Your work in the Hinterlands only further proves your value.” She seemed surprised at his tone. He realized he’d leaned far forward onto the table and leaned back a bit, relaxing his clenched fist. Was this a common thread of thought among _all_ mages? She wasn’t the only mage in the Inquisition. Although Cullen had expected tensions to be high between the mages and Templars—especially at a time like this—he had hoped that at least some of them would understand the need to work together. What if he’d set his hopes too high? The thought disappointed him. And the Herald _was_ one of the leaders of the Inquisition in all but name; she was present and a deciding factor in everything that happened at the War Table. She should be respected as such. The thought that she wasn’t rattled him. He softened his voice. “Besides, mage or not, you’re still a person. You’ve been nothing but respectful to everyone, Templars included, and you deserve as much respect back. And you’ve been nothing but responsible with your magic.” Slightly surprised at how animated he’d become, he leaned back until his back rested against the back of the chair and forced his muscles to relax.

She froze. “Responsible?”

He winced and closed his eyes for a moment. “I only meant, you’re not…you know…” He gestured randomly into the air, unable to find the words to explain. All warmth had fled from her face, which was now an unreadable wall. Her eyes pierced through him, seeming to extract the information by force of will alone. “You just don’t go around casting at anything and everything—”

“Define ‘responsible.’” Her voice had flattened and he desperately wished he could erase his last sentence from existence, if only to avoid this awkward conversation.

“Well, I—”

“There are mages here that cast much more frequently than I do, who use all sorts of spells only meant to _help_. Unless I’ve merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I’ve never seen them get any thanks. They only get trouble from Templars and non-mages alike and everyone is watching them, even though they think no one notices their babysitting.”

“Of course, but there _is_ the risk of possession—”

“We have more than enough Templars here if it ever comes to that. _You’re_ a Templar and the commander of the armies. You should know better than anyone. And speaking as someone who’s been a mage since the age of ten, most of us know how to safely navigate the risks of the Fade.”

“ _Ex-_ Templar,” he growled with more menace than he’d meant to. He was just so tired of everyone referring to him as a Templar when he’d very clearly and loudly renounced that title over and over.

“You don’t sound like an _ex_ -Templar to me,” she muttered into her mug.

He could feel his muscles tensing and noticed his fist was clenching on the table again. Unsure how to diffuse the situation, he sat up a little straighter and hid his fist in his lap. He avoided her eyes. “Of course. I’m sorry, my lady.”

The silence between them wasn’t easy and companionable anymore. Why did he always have to put his foot in his mouth? After several uncomfortable minutes, she finally spoke. “I understand your concerns with possession, Commander. They’re…not completely unwarranted.” He finally met her eyes. She seemed to have shrunk in her chair and looked so much smaller and sadder than she had just minutes ago. “It just gets…exhausting, when people treat you like a weapon or a vessel waiting to be possessed instead of an actual _person_. Of course, there are dangers and maybe Templars are even _good_ to have around, but I’m just tired of being treated like a waiting bomb.” She shifted in her chair. The wood creaked slightly beneath her small frame. “I just don’t want to feel like people are just standing around with weapons drawn _waiting_ for me to be possessed when that’s something that might not even ever happen. Does that make sense?”

Cullen nodded. “It makes perfect sense. And I’m sorry if I’ve ever treated you like a waiting bomb. I don’t mean to…I’d rather not go into detail, but…” He closed his eyes, nevertheless feeling like she deserved an explanation. “Kinloch and Kirkwall…I’m trying to move away from that. From…the man I was, and—”

He felt her hand cover his own and opened his eyes in surprise. He hadn’t even realized he’d moved it back on top of the table. Her hand looked like a child’s compared to his. “You don’t have to explain,” she said quietly. “I appreciate you trying.” She hesitated. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but if you ever need to talk—or even just need a distraction—my door is always open.”

Touched by the gesture, especially after he had been such a Templar about magic, he rearranged his fingers and gave her hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you. I’d like to make the same offer to you.”

She smiled and gave him a returning squeeze. She blinked and quickly let go of his hand to hide her yawn. He felt rather disappointed at the lack of weight and warmth on his own hand, but fought to suppress his own yawn. “It’s probably getting rather late,” he said. “May I walk you back to your quarters?”

She smiled. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

To his surprise, she carefully balanced her plate, bowl and mug in her arms and made her way to the counter. He followed her lead and handed off the dirty kitchenware to one of the maids behind the counter. She beamed gratefully at both of them. “Thank you so much, my lady, Commander.”

Cullen glanced over and noticed Lysette watching the Herald curiously with a look of surprise on her face. The two of them reached the door and Cullen offered the Herald his elbow. She smiled and nestled her hand into the crook of his arm. “Good night, Commander,” Lysette called after them. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Good night, Lady Herald.” The Herald smiled and nodded before they both slipped out the door. Cullen felt his lips twist into a involuntary small grin; perhaps there was more hope for an understanding between Templars and mages than he originally thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely sure how happy I am with this chapter, but it helps take things the direction I want them to go. It's also one in the morning, so my sleep-deprived self is deciding to post this as it is. I have accepted my curse of ridiculously slow updates and I'm so sorry. I really am going to try to be better about this in the future. Thanks for the read and comments/kudos are greatly appreciated <3 Hope you're all having a good day/night. For updates, requests or messages, my Tumblr is @andraste-preserve-us.

It was familiar routine by now: wake up, spar with Cullen—the _Commander_ , she reminded herself—wash up, get some breakfast and start the day. She knew Cullen struggled with headaches, probably due to lack of sleep from his nightmares of Kinloch and Kirkwall. Even the signs of fatigue made sense. What didn’t make sense were the frequent signs of nausea and sometimes even slight fever that battered Cullen’s form. Was there something he wasn’t telling her? Of course, he was under no _obligation_ to tell her anything, but she couldn’t help worrying about him.

Lost in her thoughts, Cullen swept her off her feet and she landed hard on her back. All the air _whooshed_ out of her and she struggled for breath. The sun was on the rise, turning the clouds soft hues of pink, purple and orange. The chilly air would’ve raised the gooseflesh on her arms if she wasn’t sweating so much. Cullen was a difficult opponent and always gave her a good workout.

“Herald?” His face suddenly obscured her view, a few golden ringlets hanging down his forehead. Not even a drop of sweat on his face. She couldn’t help narrowing her eyes at him. He chuckled in response, helping her to her feet once she regained her breath.

“I don’t feel like I’ve been doing very well,” she panted. “And we’ve been practicing for nearly a month.”

“Well, you’re no worse, but—if I’m to be honest, my lady—there hasn’t been much improvement.” He studied her for a moment, his golden gaze alighting on how she let her sword drag behind her. “How does that sword feel?”

She glanced down at the wooden sword she’d been using for the past few weeks. She lifted it and winced as her muscles screamed. “Heavy.”

Cullen frowned. “Perhaps we should try a hand-and-a-half.”

“This _is_ a hand-and-a-half.”

Cullen’s frown only deepened and he flicked a stray curl out of his face before stepping closer. “Put both hands on the hilt—no, like this. Well…oh.”

She couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill go through her as his hands held hers, inspecting how her joined hands barely covered the entire hilt. She pushed the thought from her mind, shrugging. “I have small hands.”

Cullen inhaled the crisp morning air, sighing it out in a small gust that she could feel on her face from their proximity. She couldn’t help watching the way his scar moved as he spoke. “You mentioned you used another type of weapon when you learned how to swordfight before…What was it?” He met her eyes and she blinked, quickly crashing back to reality.

“Um…two long knives. It was all the mercenaries had with them.”

“You were a mercenary?”

She swallowed. He was still holding her hands. “Well, after Valari was destroyed and I ran, they found me wandering around in the woods. I actually tried to steal some food and water from their campfire, but was caught. They took me in and I was with them for four years. Captain MaCrone and his men were good to me.”

“MaCrone?” He stared at her incredulously. “ _Felix_ MaCrone, the ex-chevalier?”

Now it was her turn to frown. “You know him?”

“I know of him.” He finally let go of her hands, motioning for her to follow. She trudged through the thin layer of snow over to the bin full of practice swords. Cullen took the sword from her hand and shoved it in the bin. “He was rather famous for his excellent fighting and leadership skills, but he retired, didn’t he?”

Margo nodded. “He was a supporter of Empress Celene, but eventually was transferred to a unit that worked more closely with Duke Gaspard. When he realized it was clear he wouldn’t be serving Celene again anytime soon and Gaspard started rebelling, he retired and became a mercenary.”

“He’s the one who taught you how to fight?” Cullen closely inspected the bin of practice swords, moving a few aside as if searching for something. A crow alighted on top of the stables several yards away and cawed right in the face of one of Dennet’s horses. The horse turned and huffed through its nose, scaring the crow away. The Iron Bull emerged from his tent and nodded their direction. Cullen raised his hand in greeting as Margo merely nodded.

“Yes,” she answered. “He was rather insistent that I know how to defend myself without magic. Especially since we were trying to keep the fact that I was a mage secret. At least while we were in the south.”

“The south? You’ve been up north, to Tevinter?” Aggravated, he finally yanked a practice sword out of the bin, hoisted up his leg and snapped the thick piece of wood in two across his thigh. “Here, try these.”

Margo did her best not to melt. “Is your leg—”

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and guided her back to where they had been sparring with a gentle hand on the small of her back.

“Well,” she replied, trying her best to put thoughts of Cullen’s other possible _strengths_ out of her mind, “we were in Tevinter for a time, but not very long.” She hesitated as they reached their usual sparring spot. “Felix actually tried to convince me to live with him there. He offered to quit the mercenary band and set up a sort of swordplay school, buy a house and…well, live there with me.”

“He must’ve been rather attached to you.” Cullen’s voice had taken on a strange tone, his body oddly stiff.

Margo frowned. “Well…yes, I suppose I was attached to him as well. He was the closest thing to a father that I ever had.”

Cullen immediately relaxed at the word _father_ and gave her a reassuring smile. Had he assumed they were close in age and been…jealous? She shook her head slightly. That would be ridiculous. The commander nodded towards the two staves in her hand, crouching into a defensive position. “Try those, see if they feel any better.”

“Wait, I need to fix these.” She set one stave on the ground by her feet and turned the other so that the point faced up. “Don’t want to poke your eye out.”

Cullen chuckled, relaxing his stance. “Yes, I would appreciate both eyes, thank you.”

She smiled as her hand began to glow with a soft white light. She passed her hand over the jagged, broken end of the stave and made a blunt tip, her magic crumbling the dangerous point to dust. She did the same with the other, glancing at Cullen as the last of the dust fell to her feet. He watched her with a mix of curiosity and wariness, his brown eyes flashing. “Sorry,” she muttered as she brushed some of the dust off her pants.

“I wish you would stop apologizing,” he said quietly, sinking into a defensive stance again. “It’s really not your fault. It’s just…something I’ll have to get used to.”

Margo settled into her own stance, hesitating a moment. “I could…help with that if you want. Get used to magic, I mean, maybe see that it’s not all that bad.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“I’m not sure…but I’d be willing to try. You’re helping me with my swordplay. It seems a fair trade.”

He nodded slowly. “Thank you. I’ll consider it. Now—move that foot back a little bit. Just a little more. There! Perfect. Now when someone comes at you with their shield up, especially if it’s a tall shield that covers their entire body, it’s a bit different with two long knives…”

* * *

 

It had been the Herald’s idea and, Cullen admitted, he thought it was a brilliant one. One he should’ve thought of, but hadn’t. Many of the Templars had fought against mages, but the vast majority of recruits hadn’t. The Herald had suggested during their last sparring session that she and another mage or Cullen himself fight in front of the recruits, to give them an idea of what to expect in battle. She had also been rather insistent that they watch her battle another mage; there were a fair number of mages in the Inquisition who might have to battle other mages at some point in close proximity to the recruits. She had said a battle between two mages—especially two powerful mages—could be “loud,” although he wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

So here he was, off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, while the recruits stood in a semicircle around the Herald and a former Knight-Enchanter by the name of Jorr. He knew the pair had been practicing for a week or two, which had cut down on their sparring sessions substantially. Not only did he miss having a full hour of alone time with her, but after two weeks of sparring with wooden dual-wield long-knives, she was _finally_ showing vast improvement. Cullen couldn’t help feeling more than a little proud.

“Commander.”

Cullen jumped, followed by a sigh of relief. “Solas. I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you approach.”

The elf hummed in reply, standing pensively with his hands folded behind his back. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he nodded towards the Herald. “No doubt you were otherwise occupied.”

Cullen resisted the urge to sputter and protest as Jorr began to speak. Several mages had also gathered around to watch. Everyone listened intently as Jorr echoed the Herald’s warning about a battle between two mages. The pair settled into the appropriate positions. Even from this distance, Cullen could see the Herald’s eyes gleaming like a hawk. She kept her stance far more open than Cullen would’ve liked, but he refrained from stepping in. Not only could that possibly shake the recruits’ confidence in the Herald—which he’d found she hated being called—but like she said, she had been a mage since the age of ten. With seventeen years of experience, he figured she knew what she was doing.

Jorr seemed rather sedate as well, meandering several steps closer to the recruits. The Herald mimicked his movements and the two casually circled each other for several seconds. In a sharp, jerking movement, Jorr suddenly launched a fireball the Herald’s way. The flames stopped barely a foot from her chest, making Cullen tense, before the blue wall of her forcefield rippled and made a quiet _whomp-whomp_ noise before disappearing again. The flames scattered around the edge of the shield before dissipating into the cold air.

The Herald crouched low as Jorr moved closer, moving a hand as if to strike at him from below. At the last second, she jumped and brought a lightening bolt down on him from above. It skimmed over the top of Jorr’s forcefield and wrapped itself around his body. Cullen tensed, shocked that she would strike at him so thoroughly outside of real combat, but Jorr merely shuddered as if a cold chill had run down his spine before recovering himself.

“It looks much more powerful than it is,” Solas murmured, as if reading his thoughts. “When two mages practice like this, it is referred to as false fire—the equivalent of your wooden practice swords.”

Cullen didn’t dare take his eyes off the mages, who continued to throw fire and electricity at each other. Many times, it dissipated off the opponent’s shield, but each strike did no more than graze either of them, leaving no marks. “So,” he finally said, “Jorr didn’t feel that lightening bolt hit him just now?”

“The false fire stings,” Solas answered, “but does little to no damage.”

“Have you ever fought with her?”

“No. Although I would imagine it would be fascinating to fight against a Minrathi. I do not know if she will use her full powers here, in front of your recruits though. There is enough prejudice against mages, and the Herald in particular, without everyone fearing what she’s capable of more than they already do.”

Cullen frowned. He hadn’t thought about that. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea after all. He glanced at the faces of the recruits and found Lysette off to the side, watching with a mixture of awe and wariness, her hand resting firmly on the pommel of her sword.

The Herald suddenly cried out, drawing Cullen’s attention. She laid flat on her back merely feet away from him, quickly rolling to the side as Jorr launched a ball of energy where she had been. The snow spewed up into the air and Cullen and Solas had to take several steps back to avoid getting sprayed. She had been right: the fight _was_ loud. Although it was mainly a mixture of throwing various elements at each other—fire, ice, electricity, balls of energy that acted like air—with both opponents dodging or throwing up a forcefield, the collisions echoed across the empty field. He didn’t doubt they could be heard inside the walls of Haven as well. He noticed Cassandra and the Iron Bull drift closer to the fight.

Cullen noticed the Herald had switched to mainly offensive tactics and wondered what she was planning. A ball of energy hit her square in the chest, sending her flying. Cullen took an involuntary step forward as several gasps slipped from the crowd. The Herald remained where she was, pushing herself up onto her hands and knees and holding her side as if injured. Although the gash she received in the Hinterlands should’ve been nearly healed by now, what if Jorr had accidentally reopened the wound? The Herald’s armor kept him from determining if there was a blooming circle of blood on her shirt.

Jorr froze, cautiously making his way over to his opponent. When she made no move to retaliate, Cullen began to walk towards her. This had been a horrible idea, he should’ve known to check if her side was fully healed first—

Solas’s hand on his arm was surprisingly firm. “ _Don’t_.”

The recruits murmured behind him while Jorr and the Herald exchanged a few words. As he lifted a hand to help her up, she suddenly shot a steady stream of ice up his arm. The ice spread to encase his entire body, although it began to crack quickly thanks to Jorr’s quick instinct. But before he could free himself completely, the Herald summoned a ball of lightening and _punched_ him with it. The ice exploded off of Jorr’s body and he went flying across the field to land hard on his back.

The Herald stood, her chest heaving with the effort. Cullen relaxed as she met his eyes and stepped back to where he’d originally stood. Although Jorr had used his staff several times, the Herald’s wasn’t even strapped to her back. He knew she had one from reports of the expedition in the Hinterlands—if she was _this_ powerful sans-staff, how much more potent were her attacks when she _did_ use one? Although he had noticed her attacks sometimes seemed less focused than Jorr’s, they were just as powerful and precise. As much as he loathed to admit it, the thought worried him.

Although everyone else’s eyes were on Jorr as he slowly stood, Cullen noticed the Herald close her eyes and inhale deeply. Even several feet away, he could _feel_ the shift of an overwhelming wave of magic settling over him like a wave. His body instinctually tensed and searched for the lyrium in his veins. At the lack thereof, his head began to pound and he rubbed his forehead.

“And finally, this,” Jorr bellowed once he found his feet, “is what happens when you strike a Minrathi, for future reference.”

Cullen saw the Herald’s shields waver in the air before slowly misting into nothing. Jorr pointed the head of his staff in her direction and lightening suddenly lit up the few feet between them. Cullen’s eyes widened as the electricity danced around the Herald’s form. Just as he moved to stop them, her eyes suddenly _glowed_ before she was hurled back so hard, she crashed into the Iron Bull’s tent, snapping the main pole in half. There were several crashes before the fabric pooled over top of her body.

Bull merely sighed as Jorr winced. “Sorry—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a sound like a thunderclap echoed across the field and a shape blurred towards Jorr. He quickly threw up a shield, but the shape moved at the last second to strike a tree behind the crowd. Another loud _crack_ clapped through the air and the tree slowly began to fall away from the crowd. A deafening silence followed the final crash of the tree to the ground. All eyes were on the Herald, who stood next to the tree, chest heaving and eyes still glowing. Tiny bolts of electricity still sputtered around her arms, torso and legs. Her eyes suddenly returned to normal and she sat on the ground with a rough _thud_ , resting her arms against her legs and panting heavily.

“Fascinating,” Solas breathed next to him.

“So,” Jorr drew everyone’s attention back to him, “to prove a point: if the Herald is _that_ powerful and really wanted to destroy the world, why hasn’t she killed all of you yet?” He spread his hands and shrugged before making his way over to the still indisposed Herald.

As the recruits began to talk animatedly amongst themselves, Cullen merely stared at the Herald. So _that_ was what a Minrathi was capable of. That was what _she_ was capable of. Although he was still afraid this might spread fear through the ranks, Jorr’s question seemed to control most of the damage the display could’ve caused. Cullen wasn’t sure what to think. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it; he didn’t want to be wary of her, but every instinct screamed at him to watch her more closely from now on. The lack of lyrium in his blood began to make his stomach clench and he swallowed hard, praying to the Maker that his nausea wouldn’t return now.

Jorr had made a good point, echoing Cassandra’s earlier statement: if she had _this_ much power at her fingertips and hadn’t harmed anyone with it—if anything, she’d _helped_ people and helped undo the damage the Breach was causing—why would it make sense that she was responsible for what had happened at the Conclave? Still, he knew suspicion wouldn’t die overnight and there were those that would probably use her power as a Minrathi to their own advantage—

“This is _proof_ that she’s a suspect!” a voice trilled from behind Cullen. He sighed and ran a hand down his face as eyes turned to Chancellor Roderick picking his way down the slope behind him. He turned to Solas, but the elf was nowhere to be seen.

Cassandra met his eyes and shook her head, making her way towards Roderick. The Iron Bull lingered by her side. Seeing him, the chancellor pulled up short and allowed the conversation to remain between himself and the Seeker.

Convinced Cassandra could handle the situation, Cullen turned and quickly made his way over to the Herald. She still sat on the ground, regaining her breath, with Jorr crouched beside her. Cullen followed suit and, after a moment of hesitation, put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, gazing at Cassandra and Roderick with worry. Her eyes flicked back up to the murmuring recruits before finally resting on him. He could practically read the question in her eyes: _are you afraid of me now?_

Unsure what to say, he merely squeezed her shoulder in reply. He had grown to know her and grow fond— _very_ fond—of her in the past few months she’d been part of the Inquisition. Although he might not trust her with his deepest, darkest secrets quite yet, he trusted her as a person. He’d seen her heal too many sick, play with too many children, help too many people to think of her as a threat anymore, and he knew Cassandra and other members of her inner circle felt the same. However, seeing just how powerful she was with his own eyes had shaken him up more than he liked to admit. She didn’t seem all powerful; she looked rather pale and fragile now with her mana depleted as much as it was. It concerned him, but also gave him a breath of relief. At least she would need to recharge after this just like any normal mage. He closed his eyes for a moment, the turmoil in his head only making it pound more. The churning in his stomach also intensified and he took a shuddery breath.

“Commander?” she murmured. “What’s wrong?”

“I am fine, Herald—”

“You just watched her fell a tree!” Roderick’s voice carried across the field. “You _all_ did! How does this not convince you that she needs to be taken to Val Roy—”

“ _Enough!_ ” Cassandra roared. “ _I_ trust her. And so do the commander, ambassador and Sister Nightingale. Now, if you are done causing a scene, there are sick and wounded you should be tending to, instead of trying to raise an unnecessary fuss in the ranks!”

Roderick sputtered, turning his face incredulously to the now silent mass before him. “She cannot speak for all of you! Make up your _own_ minds—”

Cullen could feel the Herald tense underneath his hand. Keeping a sharp glare on the chancellor, he gently rubbed his thumb to and fro on her shoulder.

Before Roderick could finish his thought, the Iron Bull’s massive hand suddenly clapped his shoulder. Cullen could see his Adam’s apple wobble in a gulp as he looked up at the massive Qunari. Bull merely gave him a tight smile before giving his shoulder a firm pat. Thankfully, the chancellor took the hint and stomped back inside the city’s gates.

“Do you want to show them how to block magical attacks with a shield still?” the Herald asked, pulling Cullen’s eyes back to hers.

Cullen looked over her still shaking muscles and the light bags under her eyes before squeezing her shoulder. “I think you need some rest. You’ve done enough for today.”

“I agree,” Jorr said. “You did quite a bit more than expected.”

She glanced at the fallen tree. “It was the closest thing that wasn’t you.”

“I had a shield ready, my lady.”

“I know. I wasn’t ready to take that risk, though.”

“Well, thank you. Although your mana might be drained for a while.”

She nodded and let the commander and Knight-Enchanter work together to pull her to her feet. Cullen glanced at the recruits before him. The mages had begun to wander off, but what was left of the group was quickly growing in volume. He glanced back at Jorr. “Make sure she gets taken care of?”

He nodded, wrapping an arm around the Herald’s shoulders and already leading her back towards the gates. The Herald glanced back at him one more time and he smiled reassuringly, praying the group decided to listen to the Seeker over the chancellor. No matter how he felt about her power, the thought of the Herald being executed in Val Royeaux made his stomach dance more than withdraw ever could.

* * *

 

“That was quite the display earlier today,” Cassandra said, settling next to Margo on the Chantry bench.

Margo cringed, fiddling with the hem of her shirt sleeve and examining the small statue of Andraste in front of her. The dim candlelight made it nearly impossible to read the Seeker’s expression. “I…” she wet her lips as she tried to find the words, “wanted to show I have nothing to hide, I suppose.”

“But you risked making everyone much more suspicious of you.”

“Are _you_ more suspicious of me now?”

Cassandra turned to the statue, half of her face hidden in shadow. She was silent for a long time, making Margo worry that it _had_ been a horrible idea. Feeling the need to fill the silence, she continued. “I just wanted…” she trailed off and sighed, unsure what she had wanted, really. “There…feels like there’s more to it than just me wanting to put everything out into the open. It wasn’t to show off though, I promise.”

“I did not think you were trying to flaunt your talents,” Cassandra finally answered. “You wanted to be fully accepted for who you were, did you not? You wanted to stop hiding a part of yourself. I understand, however reckless the decision was. I’m only concerned that more eyes will be watching you more closely now.”

“It was a risk I was willing to take. I felt it would be better if everyone knew I’m…different from other mages now, in a safe and controlled environment, rather than on a battlefield where they could be surprised—and that surprise could cost them a limb, or worse, if they lost focus on their opponent for too long. I didn’t want anyone to try and use the information against me, either.”

Cassandra nodded. “As for your earlier question…I do not know how I feel. I will not lie: I am a bit warier of you now than I am before. But it’s been months since we found you. You’ve done good work in the Hinterlands and the Storm Coast in that time. Much more than was expected of you. I will not pretend that you haven’t helped people. And I appreciate you being honest about your powers. But there are those who will agree with Chancellor Roderick. The last thing we need is discontent and infighting among the troops.”

Margo sighed, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Maybe this was a horrible idea…”

“Horrible or not, it was brave in its honesty. I do not think it would make sense for you to flaunt your powers if you really _had_ destroyed the Conclave. If you’d had a hand in the Divine’s death, that would be something you would’ve kept secret at all costs. But some are so desperate for answers, that they will blame whoever they can.”

Margo frowned. “If you think this is further proof that I’m innocent, then why are you warier of me now?”

“I would be wary of any mage with as much power as you have. Many people are wary of regular mages, never mind a Minrathi—if they even know what that term means. Especially with the Breach glaring down at them everyday and Rifts that are spawning demons. Magic terrifies many. That was why the Circles were created in the first place: to keep everyone safe.”

“Clearly they didn’t work. Many mages were just being abused by Templars who felt they should because they could. You’ve seen how everything’s fallen apart. You can’t pretend the Circles worked.”

“Changes do need to be made, but I believe the system itself is sound. The corruption came from the people who sought to bend the system to their own benefit.” She paused, fiddling with her glove. “You said the people at the Ostwick Circle were good to you, yes?”

“Well, yes, but mages can never leave the Circles. While inside them, we can never have love lives outside of hidden trysts in dark hallways; we can never marry; we’re not allowed children, and if we _do_ have them, they’re taken from us immediately and we never see them again while they’re raised by the Chantry and taught to hate us.” She could feel her fingernails digging into her palms inside her pockets and hadn’t realized until now how steely her voice had become. “You’re a Seeker, Cassandra. You _know_ these things and yet you act like we can actually have something more than a half-life inside the Circle.”

Cassandra’s eyes gleamed in the darkness and Margo couldn’t tell if she was glaring or if it was a trick of the candlelight. “If that’s how you felt, why did you not join the mage rebellion?”

“Because violence and division get us nowhere…” Her voice cracked. “You’re not the only one mourning Divine Justinia. You’re not the only one who had high hopes for the Conclave.”

Cassandra sighed and leaned back against the bench heavily. “I suppose not…I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. I just feel there should still be checks and balances so something like the Breach doesn’t happened again.”

Margo leaned back with her. “I know. I do, too. But there need to be drastic changes. Circles feel like no more than gilded cages, no matter how well I got along with everyone at Ostwick. I just want to be able to go outside and to have a life. I want to make a difference outside the Circle and I…” She turned her face away, willing her voice not to break. The back of her eyes burned with the effort to contain herself. “If I somehow survive all this and am lucky enough to live that long, I want a family.”

“I…had not considered it that way.” She was silent for several moments, staring at something beyond the small Andraste in front of her. Finally, she met Margo’s eyes and stood. At the Chantry door, Cassandra paused. “Thank you, Herald, for your honesty.”

Before Margo could reply, the heavy door closed behind the Seeker with an echoing _boom_. She finally observed the room and could see Josephine and Cullen speaking in the shadows across the hall. Although Cullen seemed to be more interested in her than the ambassador. Had he been listening in on her and Cassandra’s conversation? Cullen blinked when she met his gaze and quickly looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck. Another glance revealed that Mother Giselle also seemed to have been eavesdropping, albeit much more discreetly, on their conversation as well.

She sighed and hauled herself up off the bench to head out into the chill of Haven, ignoring all the eyes as best she could on the way to her house. If she remembered correctly, she had more than enough herbs to make a tea for Cullen’s headaches and nausea…


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter deals with sexual assault. If that’s something that bothers you, you are in no way obligated to read. It’s just mentioned quickly in a few sentences and there are no details of the assault given; but I still wanted to put a warning. This is where things start getting dark as well and where Margo starts having more trouble with depression and anxiety.

“But Templars could _contain_ the Breach or the Anchor if it gets out of hand!” Cullen protested for what felt like the millionth time. They had been in this meeting for over an hour and still couldn’t come to an agreement. The Herald, Cassandra and the rest of the party had returned from Redcliffe Castle just yesterday with news of a Tevinter Magister who had taken up residence. Just a month before, news of Lord Seeker Lucius’s actions in Val Royeaux had also jarred many of the Inquisition’s Templars, himself among them. But so far, the Herald, Cassandra and Leliana leaned heavily towards recruiting the mages with Josephine undecided. Nevertheless, Cullen was determined to fight his corner as long as he possibly could.

“We cannot leave a hostile foreign power on our doorstep,” Leliana piped up.

“Agreed,” Cassandra grumbled from across the table.

The Herald sighed and glared at the commander. “If we let Magister Alexius’s presence fester, he could mount an attack while we’re still dealing with the Breach. Then none of us would be ready. Especially since Lord Seeker Lucius made it clear that the Templars won’t fight for the Chantry—or anyone but themselves, for that matter. There will be no one to fight a Tevinter invasion.”

“I understand,” Cullen growled, exhausted of the whole discussion. “But Redcliffe Castle is practically impenetrable. No one has been able to take it in years. Even if we mounted a siege, it would be useless and then we really _would_ be agitating Tevinter. The mages made their choice—”

“And it was clear that Grand Enchanter Fiona didn’t realize what she was doing when she did it. She has children, elderly and sick that will die under the weight Alexius will place on them.”

“Then she should’ve thought of that before she promised a whole group of people over to him. The mages have shown what they will do given their own freedom. If you’re truly set on them, they should be conscripted so that we can keep an eye on them.”

The Herald fumed. “They were _desperate_. Although I don’t agree with Fiona’s decision, don’t pretend like you have never made decisions that have harmed a large group of people while you were in a leadership role.”

Cullen gripped the pommel of his sword so tight, he could feel the grooves in the hilt stinging his palm. Although she never said the name Kirkwall, he knew full well what she was referring to. It was a clear jab at him and, instead of trying to empathize with Fiona as he perhaps should’ve, he instead decided to glower at the woman in front of him.

“We need power, Commander,” Cassandra finally broke the tension. “Enough magic poured into that mark—”

“Could destroy us all!”

“But the mages could study and understand the mark!” the Herald protested. “They could give us answers—”

“We already have mages that have been with the Inquisition for months! Even Solas seems to know no more than anyone else!”

Josephine gently leaned her hip against the table. “We should keep in mind that, while the Lord Seeker seems rather antagonistic to our cause, he can still be reasoned with in a friendly meeting. However, if we march our ‘Orlesian’ Inquisition onto Ferelden territory, it could provoke a war.”

“Exactly!” Cullen cried.

Leliana sighed. “And is the Magister not already provoking a war by stepping onto our soil and taking the mages? There’s no doubt he has greater plans for them than just spiriting them away to Tevinter. He is going to use them for _something_ and unless we rescue them, we will be unprepared when he strikes.”

“I agree,” the Herald replied. “We should at least get the rebel mages out from under Alexius’s thumb. _Then_ ,” she turned steely eyes on Cullen, “perhaps we can discuss whether they will be recruited as allies or conscripts.”

Cullen returned her icy gaze. “So you’ve decided, have you?”

“Yes.”

“And what of the Templars who have no choice but to follow Lord Seeker Lucius? Will we leave them to flounder, even though you yourself said it seemed like there were some that would listen to reason?”

“There were. But, as much as I wish otherwise, our ambassador has said multiple times that we cannot have both.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “But, would it be possible to put the word out that any Templars are welcome to join us? Could we get a message to Therinfal without antagonizing the Lord Seeker?”

Josephine nodded slowly. “I will see what can be done, but can make no promises.”

“Or we could just _recruit_ them,” Cullen sighed, leaning heavily on the table.

“Commander, I’ve already—”

“You’ve already decided, yes, I know.” As much as he wanted this meeting to be over—his head was beginning to pound, after all—he couldn’t help feeling stubborn on this issue. “But I can’t help but wonder if you’re biased and just don’t trust Templars, so you’re purposely leaving them out of the picture as much as you can—”

“Commander,” Cassandra snapped, “she just said she wanted to send word to Therinfal Redoubt. I’m sorry you feel unwell today, but that is no excuse to be stubborn.”

“I told you, it’s just a headache. Nothing more. I would rather focus on the problem at hand—”

“A decision has been made, Commander.”

“But I don’t understand—”

“Commander.” All eyes were drawn to the Herald’s rigid form and haunted eyes. The stare she fixed Cullen with shook him. She was silent for several moments, then, very quietly, “Lord Seeker Lucius has only proved the abuse he’s willing to inflict. I will not and _cannot_ tolerate that type of behavior within the Inquisition and neither should anyone else. We have mages here who are in need of protection, not a punch to the head.”

“But—”

“Do you know what the mages—and even some of the Templars—called the Harrowing Chamber at the Valari Circle, Commander?”

Caught off guard, Cullen frowned, dread bubbling in his already churning stomach. “What?”

“The Rape Room.”

Silence fell over the War Room like a hammer blow. Cullen stared at her agape, withdraw and anger forgotten.

Still barely audible, she continued. “I saw Knight-Commander Vako do what Lord Seeker Lucius did a million times—to people just as undeserving as that Chantry cleric. I know not all Templars are like that, but I refuse to ally myself with someone who thinks that’s acceptable behavior. While Grand Enchanter Fiona’s decision is also questionable, she has conducted herself much better than he has and we cannot leave a Tevinter magister on our doorstep. Especially one involved in a cult that’s apparently obsessed with my mark.” She glanced around to the others, who were shocked into silence as much as he was, and seemed to lose all stamina in one whooshing exhale.

“Perhaps we should reconvene at a later time,” Josephine suggested.

“I agree,” Cassandra said. “We cannot leave again until more supplies have been acquired anyway. That gives us two days, at least.”

“We will meet first thing tomorrow morning, then,” Leliana offered.

The Herald nodded, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and rushed out of the room with Josephine and Leliana on her heels. The spymaster turned and gave him a sharp glare before disappearing into the shadows.

Cullen let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and slumped against the wall behind him. He knew he should apologize, but he wanted to clear his head first. A jumbled apology might be worse than no apology at all. He doubted the Herald wanted much to do with anyone right now anyway—especially him.

He jumped at Cassandra’s voice. He thought she had left with the others. “We have enough Templars to keep the situation under control and you _know_ that.” She began to move towards the door. “Knowing Leliana, she will find a way to get a message to Therinfal one way or another.”

Cullen looked up just in time to watch the Seeker stomp out the door. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. _Fuck_.

* * *

 

 Margo let another gulp of alcohol burn down her throat and winced, motioning the bartender for another mug. She could feel herself on the brink of inebriation, but didn’t care. She didn’t really care about _anything_ at the moment. All the worry and despair that had been building up had seemed to coalesce to a fine point and she felt nearly as empty, numb and desperate as she had after escaping the carnage of Valari. Except there was no Captain MaCrone to save her this time. There wasn’t _anyone_ to save her this time. Well, maybe with the exception of the bartender.

At some point, Sera had tried to keep her company, but Margo was too far into her drink to take much note of her words. Although the elf did force her to eat at least three dinner rolls, she found it hard to summon much of an appetite. She remembered Sera’s concerned gaze as she mumbled an excuse to leave. But instead of making her way towards her quarters, she felt herself staggering towards the lake and plopping down rather forcefully on the pier. She winced and stared numbly off into the night. She remembered when she and Cullen had sat here just a few months ago, skipping rocks. The memory would’ve made her smile if it wasn’t eclipsed by the argument in the War Room today. For all his “healing,” he still had such a stereotypically _Templar_ view of mages. If they conscripted the mages, how was that any better than a Circle? Not that all hope was lost for the Circles. If they were changed drastically, Margo could even see them working out in the long run. But with someone like Lucius at the Templars’ helm…She shuddered. He reminded her so much of Vako: so convinced that he was well within his rights to just take whatever he wanted. Someone like that was even more dangerous than a person who knew they were doing something wrong.

She sighed and hiccupped. It occurred to her she hadn’t really paid attention to whether she was merely tipsy or had crossed the line to full drunk. Tears stung her eyes. She had done everything the Inquisition had asked of her—even when they had treated her with suspicion and disdain. Cullen had been one of the few that was kind to her from the start. But the look in his eyes when he stood across the War Table today…She had considered him a friend. But today, in that dark and cramped room, his eyes held the angry blaze of a Templar glaring down a mage.

Margo hid her face in her hands and sobbed.

* * *

Cullen sighed and paused in his reports to rub at his face. He was hardly concentrating anyway. After gathering his thoughts and mentally rehearsing what to say and how to say it nearly a hundred times, he had set off in search of the Herald. His efforts had been fruitless, however, much to his dismay. Everyone he had asked had seen her at different locations several minutes ago. But when he checked each one of them, she was no longer there. First she’d been taking a walk near the grounds where he drilled the soldiers, then she’d been in her quarters reviewing reports, then she’d been talking to a number of different people, then she’d been at the tavern, then her quarters, then the tavern again, then the lake—but by the time Cullen had gotten there, all of those places were devoid of her presence. He briefly wondered if she’d been taking lessons from Leliana. But if the spymaster had any idea where the Herald was, she declined to tell him.

It was now well past dinner and the Herald still hadn’t arrived to fetch him for supper or deliver the tea she’d been making him lately for his withdraw symptoms. He hadn’t told her about the lack of lyrium in his veins, but she had still seemed to pick up on his daily aches and pains. The tea had helped him sleep a great deal better than before. Of course, he was still having nightmares, but it was far easier to fall asleep with the pain in his body lessened.

Eventually, he had given up trying to search for the Herald. She clearly didn’t want to be found. He tried to fool himself that maybe she _had_ searched for him, she’d just forgotten that he’d been moved from a tent to a small room in the Chantry that served as office and quarters. No, that was ridiculous. She’d been here several times already and had even helped him section off his bed and night stand with two strategically placed bookshelves. Besides, after his outburst today, why would she want to talk to him? He’d reminded her of so many horrible memories and his response to her attempts to compromise had been that of a petulant child. The headache and nausea had been no excuse for his actions.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. Whenever he thought about her, a sense of dread bubbled in his stomach, as if she were in some sort of immediate danger that he needed to save her from. But he couldn’t be sure of anything if he couldn’t _find_ her.

He jumped out of his seat at a sudden knock at the door. Rushing forwards, praying to the Maker that it was her, he flung the door open. “My lady—” He came to an abrupt halt as he stood face to face with Varric instead.

The dwarf chuckled, clutching a tray carrying a kettle full of steaming water, a mug and a bundle of herbs. “Well, I’m flattered at the title, Curly, but I assure you that it’s not necessary.” He cocked his head towards Cullen’s desk. “May I?”

Cullen’s shoulders drooped and he begrudgingly moved aside. “What’s all this?”

“Just something the Herald sent over. A servant was on the way with it, but I intercepted her. Figured I’d deliver it myself.”

Cullen plopped unceremoniously back into his chair. “Well, that’s kind of you.”

“No problem.” Instead of leaving, however, Varric dragged over the extra chair in the corner and sat on the other side of the desk.

Cullen paused in shaking the packet of herbs out into his mug. He was grateful she’d still sent him the tea, even though it was far less than what he deserved. He still wished she had delivered it herself, as she usually did. “Can I…help you, Varric?”

“You know, the Herald’s just a person, right?”

He sighed and poured the water over the herbs, watching them swirl and turn the water a dark grey color. “Yes, I know.” He paused. “Is she…Have you talked to her today at all?”

“Saw her walking around earlier. Sera talked to her, too. She didn’t look so good.”

Cullen slumped in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been trying to find her all day.”

“She’s got a lot on her plate. She’s avoiding everyone at the moment. Sera said she couldn’t get away fast enough when she tried to join her for ‘dinner.’” He made quotes in the air with his fingers.

“‘Dinner’?”

“Sera said she had to force the Herald to eat a couple dinner rolls with all the drinks she was having at the tavern. She was teetering pretty bad on the way out, but made it clear she didn’t want anyone to follow.”

“Oh, Maker…”

“You did a number on her, whatever you said. But, to be honest, this has probably been a long time coming.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s been bottling a lot in since the Conclave.”

“So…what do I do? Should I seek her out or let her come to me?”

Varric sighed, visibly worried. “I don’t know…She doesn’t really seem to be processing anything very well right now. I don’t think she’s likely to go to anyone herself though. We should all probably just see where we are in the morning.”

Cullen nodded as the dwarf took his leave. The door clicking in the latch sounded deafening and foreboding in the silence that followed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: certain scenes alluding to suicidal thoughts, depression and feelings of inadequacy and loneliness.

Margo cut a careful path through the silence of the dungeons, Dorian on her heels. Both held their staffs at the ready as they sloshed through varying levels of water. Although they’d encountered nothing that came above their knees, she’d nearly drowned earlier. After being sucked through Alexius’s portal—which she and Dorian had concluded took them a year forward in time after running into a dying Fiona—Margo had landed flat on her back. Still coming to her senses, she’d tried to inhale and had been greeted by a mouthful of water. Wouldn’t _that_ have been her luck: drowning in knee deep water, after surviving an explosion that killed hundreds and multiple attacks by demons, rogue Templars, rebel mages, bandits and the like. The only reason she hadn’t was because of the Tevinter mage following close behind her. He had yanked her up out of the water just in time, which she’d repaid by killing the three Venatori that attacked him after they’d made their grand entrance.

The castle creaked and groaned about them as they searched for her companions and spymaster. With her dying breath, Fiona had told them that they were still alive and somewhere in the hold. She had begun to say something about Cullen, but shuddered and gone still before she could finish her sentence. She had slumped and folded into the red lyrium that had been growing _out_ of her body. In just a few hours, her corpse would probably be found and mined by the Venatori for more. Margo shuddered at the thought and pressed on.

“Ugh,” Dorian said quietly behind her. “I feel soggy. Alexius will pay for ruining my outfit.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have time to take it up with him before the Inquisition arrests him.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Let’s just hope you _can_ reverse the spell.”

“We need to get the locket first, which means finding Alexius first.” He groaned as his foot came down into yet another puddle. “Oh, now this is just humiliating. Do they never mop?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive, Your Sogginess.”

“ _Pfffftttt_ —”

They both froze at the sound of a distant voice. Hugging the wall more closely, the two of them followed the sound through a wooden door to more cells. Margo could tell the voice belonged to a woman and she seemed to be…praying?

“Cassandra?” she called quietly.

The voice stopped and Margo carefully rounded the corner to see the seeker sitting on the ground behind bars. “Herald! Is it truly you? Has Andraste given us another chance?” Her voice sounded strange in the shadowy cavern of the jail; as if another, deeper voice was speaking at the same time as hers. As Margo crept closer, wary of any waiting Venatori, she noticed a strange red light flickering in her eyes and some sort of red energy extending in snake-like tendrils from her body.

She quickly unlocked the cell with the key she’d found on a dead Venatori. “Maker, what happened to you? Are you hurt?”

Cassandra slowly stood, leaning heavily on the cell door. “It is the red lyrium…Just being near it for long enough will,” she paused and took a shaky breath, “ _affect_ you. Some of us have been forced to ingest it. But…” she shook her head, “Maker forgive me. I failed you. I failed the Inquisition, the Divine—”

“You didn’t fail anyone. Alexius brought us forward through time. Dorian has a plan to get us back to our present, so this day never comes.”

“We have to find Alexius,” Dorian added, “and hope he still has that same locket he used to open the portal. I may be able to reverse engineer it to take us back— _maybe_. It’s a big risk.”

“You have to try,” Cassandra rasped. “After you disappeared, there was no one left to close the rifts. Empress Celene was assassinated by the Elder One’s lackeys and the demon horde that swept in afterwards…” She closed her eyes. “If we can make it so this day never comes, we _have_ to do whatever we can.”

“Have you seen anyone else?” Margo asked.

Cassandra nodded. “Further back in this room…I believe Solas and Varric are here…and so is the commander, although I think he has the least time left out of any of us. But I’m sure we will all be with the Maker soon.”

Margo felt her heart drop into her stomach. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“You can see for yourself when we free the others.”

The three of them quickly set to work on freeing whoever they could find. Cassandra took the guard’s keys while Margo and Dorian used magic to blast the locks off the cell doors. Solas and Varric both received the same explanation from Dorian as Margo searched for Cullen.

Finally, she heard a groan from one of the corner cells. Her stomach lurched; she had passed by that same cell earlier and assumed it had been filled with nothing but red lyrium. She stepped closer, wincing as the substance began to make her head pound. She had heard Varric speak before of how it could make someone hear “singing,” and she hadn’t been quite sure how to imagine that. Now, she didn’t have to: barely noticeable, she detected a slight humming in the back of her mind that was impossible to shake, like a bee trapped within her skull.

A figure lay slumped against a shard of red lyrium that scraped the ceiling. With great effort, he heaved himself up with shaking arms and met Margo’s gaze. She nearly burst into tears at the sight of him: bits of red lyrium poked out of his chest, making tears in the leather shirt he usually wore under his armor. His chest plate and fur mantle were long gone, his curly blonde hair long and unkempt and a small beard on his face. His eyes also held the same red glow as the others’, and more chunks of red lyrium poked out of his arms and legs. He stared at her and blinked, taking a shuddery breath.

“No…” he murmured, his voice also warped and distorted. “No, leave me alone, please…”

“Commander, it’s me,” she pleaded, forgetting their earlier argument in the War Room. “Alexius brought Dorian and me forward in time. If we can find him and the locket he used to open the portal, we can go back to the present and make sure none of this happens.”

He chuckled darkly. “Of course, the Fade can’t let me die in peace…it has to once again flaunt my desires in front of my eyes…”

“I’m not a trick of the Fade!” He remained silent, studying her with disinterest. She sighed. “Scoot back, if you can.” She positioned her staff, cast and the lock on his cell door blasted off with a bang. He jumped and blinked as the cell door creaked open. Glancing at the towering spikes of lyrium littering his cell, Margo rushed in and wrapped her arms around his middle, dragging him out into the hallway. Glancing around, she noticed the others tending to wounds and filling each other in.

“Margo…”

She jumped at the hand that came up to cup her face.

“You’re alive, thank the Maker.” His voice cracked and he crushed her against his chest, careful to avoid poking her with the pieces of red lyrium that littered him like thorns.

Sighing, she returned the embrace fiercely, burying her face into the crook of his shoulder while willing the tears at bay. “I’m so glad we found you.”

“I’m glad I get to see you one last time before I di—”

“ _Don’t say it_ ,” she pulled back to fix him with a glare. “Dorian and I will find a way back and then you’ll never have to go through any of this.” She felt tears leaking down her cheeks despite herself and cursed quietly.

Cullen gently wiped them away with his thumbs. “I was such a fool…”

“What are you talking about?”

“The things I said to you…before you left for Redcliffe—”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“But I do. I didn’t mean to push you away…I was just afraid…”

“Of me?”

“No. Of _me_ and of hurting you and not being good enough.” He winced and held his side as one of the small spikes of lyrium _grew_.

“Let me help—” She moved to hover her hand over his ribs, unsure what a healing spell would do, but desperate to try and at least ease his pain.

“Nothing you do will help me now. But, maybe…” He drew her hands up to his temples. Taking the hint, she began to gently massage his head, the faint blue light emanating from her hands highlighting the familiar contours of his face. He merely stared at her with a look that was far dreamier than she had been prepared for. “When you go back…tell me to stop being an idiot.” He chuckled. “If you can convince me.”

She laughed through the new tears dripping down her cheeks. “I’ll try.”

“I didn’t mean to be so harsh, I swear.” His voice cracked and began to rise and quake. “I should’ve been there for you more…I should’ve tried more, I should’ve looked harder for you that night after the argument over who to recruit, but I didn’t, I stopped and I’m so sorry—”

“Shhh,” she murmured, pausing in her massage to press her forehead to his—to steady herself as much as him. She had been trying so hard to deny the growing fondness she had for him. He was a former Templar and still followed many of their viewpoints on magic; he would never accept her as anything more than a friend, if he even saw her as anything more than a ward. Wasn’t that how all Templars viewed mages? She knew firsthand that friendships between the two groups was discouraged and after surviving Kirkwall and whatever horrors had happened at the Fereldan Circle…how could he ever want anything more with a _mage_? But his words made her stomach twist and her heart ache more than it already was. And she _still_ had to close the Breach. Would she even be able to make it back to the present alive? Or would the whole world perish for her absence?

“Herald?” Dorian called behind her. “I do hate to interrupt, but we need to find Alexius.”

She glanced back at him and nodded. He gave her a small, sympathetic smile before he slowly began making his way towards the door.

“I’ll come with you,” Cullen said, struggling to his feet.

“Cullen,” Margo protested, laying a hand on his shoulder. It was the first time she had ever said his name aloud and he blinked in surprise. “There are Venatori and who knows what else scattered all throughout the castle—”

“Exactly. Alexius has much to answer for and you need protection. You have to make sure the world never comes to this. I know where the armory is; we can find some weapons and shields there.” Taking in the grim line of her mouth, he sighed. “Please. I failed to protect you and the Inquisition the first time. Please, let me atone.”

She wanted to protest, tell him it wasn’t his fault, that in his state _she_ should be the one protecting _him_. But there wasn’t time to deal with his stubbornness. He gently squeezed her hand and she closed her eyes.

“Herald?” Dorian called from the doorway.

She nodded. “All right—but be careful.”

Cullen nodded and gave her a small smile as she helped him stand. After a few wobbly steps, he seemed to regain his footing and led them towards the armory with all the pride of the lion she remembered.

* * *

 

Weary feet guided her to Haven’s Chantry doors, the warmth of the torches and small fireplaces built into the walls surrounding her like a much-needed embrace. She could feel Cassandra’s presence at her side as they walked. She could tell the Seeker was still frustrated with her, but less angry than before. She had gone against both Cassandra’s and Cullen’s wishes and offered the rebel mages a full alliance after Alexius had been arrested. They had spoken about it in length on the journey back to Haven and, although Cassandra still didn’t agree with her decision, she said she understood why it was made.

Leliana, Josephine and Cullen stood in a circle by the door to the War Room, bickering loudly. Cullen—her stomach twisted as she remembered the version of him she had encountered in Alexius’s twisted future. So weak, yet so determined to fight for the Inquisition—for _her_. Her nose burned at the memory of a demon throwing his corpse into the throne room just before she and Dorian had used the portal to return. The red tint had faded from his eyes, leaving the familiar warm brown in its place. But the usual gleam they housed was long gone. Dead brown eyes, blonde curls and a broken, lyrium infested body was the last thing she’d seen before being sucked into Dorian’s portal. Some of the tension in her muscles abated as she looked at him now: healthy, safe…and angry. She sighed. _Here we go_.

“This is not a matter for debate!” she could hear him saying as she walked closer. “There will be abominations among the mages and we _must_ be prepared.”

Josephine scowled. “If we rescind the offer of an alliance now, it makes the Inquisition look incompetent at best; tyrannical at worst.”

Cullen finally caught sight of them and glared at Margo. Although the heat in his eyes was nothing compared to a few days ago, it still set her on edge. She thought they had talked about this weeks ago over dinner. Her body simultaneously tensed and lost all energy in one breath.

“What were you thinking,” Cullen barked, “letting mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!”

Margo was surprised at the tired rasp in her voice. “We need the mages to close the Breach. It won’t work if we make enemies of them. The way we handle the rebels will send a message beyond the Inquisition. You were the one who said you thought the Inquisition could bring real change with more than just the Breach.”

“I know we need them for the Breach, but there’s still the risk of possession.” He turned to Cassandra, his brow creased in a deep frown. “You were there, Seeker. Why didn’t you intervene?”

“Although I may not agree with the Herald’s methods,” she answered, “she did was asked. The sole purpose of the mission was to acquire the rebel mages aid and that was accomplished.”

“She is right,” Leliana added, “that the way the Inquisition treats mages could possibly set a precedent for the future. With the Chantry floundering, many are beginning to look to us for aid and guidance. By securing them as allies instead of conscripts, we’re showing that we support and are a safe place for mages.”

Margo watched Cullen’s agitated body language with disappointment. “I thought you said you wanted to try and treat mages with less suspicion and you understood we’re tired of being treated like mindless weapons with no thought or control.”

Cullen sighed. “I know that, but we do need to contain any dangers magic might cause, especially now. With the rebel mages here, they could do just as much damage as the Breach itself. Or had that not crossed your mind?”

“It had.” Her shoulders drooped and she crossed her arms across her middle. She felt so physically and mentally drained that she wouldn’t be surprised if she shattered into pieces at any moment. It felt as if her own arms were the only thing holding her together. _She_ was the only thing holding herself together. Maker, she felt so alone. “But I—and probably the rebel mages—are tired of being treated like a disease.”

Cassandra eyed her with concern before returning her attention to the others. “What’s done is done. We must honor the agreement now and prepare the mages for the assault on the Breach. It must be closed—no matter what.”

“Ah! The voice of pragmatism speaks!” Everyone turned to see Dorian leaning against the wall. He continued to speak, but Margo hardly paid any attention to his words. Her surroundings felt as if they were fading from around her and a deep exhaustion slammed into her soul, settling deep within her bones. She could’ve laid down on the hard Chantry floor and gone to sleep right there. And here she was, back with everyone treating her with suspicion and disdain—people who she thought she’d built bridges and made friends with. She closed her eyes and hung her head, hugging herself ever tighter.

In the back of her mind, she registered Dorian saying he’d decided to stay and see the Breach up close. Cullen’s voice yanked her roughly back to the present. “Very well. We will prepare the mages as best we can. Maker willing, we will have enough power to close the Breach.”

Margo forced her head up and opened her eyes. It felt as it they’d been glued together and prying them apart took more effort than she’d been expecting. “Any word back from Therinfal?”

“No official word,” Leliana replied. “But we have had a small group of Templars who decided to leave the Order trickle in ever since you left for Redcliffe.” She nodded towards the War Room. “You should join us; we’re having a meeting in an hour.”

Before she could reply, Leliana slipped into the shadows again. Margo watched her go, remembering how sickly she had looked and how she’d reached out for Margo’s aid just as the demons began to overpower her. She was grateful that she and Dorian had succeeded. Josephine made her way to her office as Cassandra stomped outside towards her usual haunt. Margo rubbed at a headache that was forming behind her left temple. She needed sleep—and to be honest, she wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to wake up. _Close the Breach first_ , she told herself, _then you can decide…things_. She shuddered. She didn’t even want to think about the darkness swirling through her thoughts right now. She just wanted to lock herself in her cabin, cry and sleep.

“…Herald?” Cullen asked hesitantly.

Margo squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t realized he was still here, but she could feel the tears pounding against the back of eyes, demanding release. In just a few minutes, she knew she would lose all control.

“My lady, I wanted to—”

“I have to go. Have a good day, Commander,” she forced through her tight throat. She turned on her heel and all but fled to her quarters. She sat in front of the fire, soaking in the warmth and turning her face towards the ceiling. As sounds of Haven’s populace bustling about floated through her window, she let her face and heart crumble.


	8. Interlude: Cole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of suicidal/depressed thoughts, feeling alone and feelings of inadequacy. This chapter is from Cole’s POV. Might do future “interludes” that will be first person from someone else’s POV throughout the story.

Pain—dark, deep tendrils that fly like poison through her veins. She’s so _loud_. Don’t know what to do, can’t do anything while the Red Templars are attacking. And I know she might die.

It makes Cullen sad—he knows it, too. He can see she’s drowning, flailing in knee-deep water, but no matter how far he wades out to rescue her, she wades out farther—further away from him. It makes him sad and angry, with both her and himself. Shouldn’t have said what he did, shouldn’t have acted the way he did, but it just came out. An avalanche before he could stop himself and now, he’s helped bury her. Haven and Corypheus might also bury her—it makes me sad. She’s in so much pain, all she wants is for him to _be there for her_ , like he was before. He wants to try, but doesn’t know how. Both are falling fast and hard, but it scares them both. Scares him more than her; he thinks he isn’t good enough, that he’s too dark to hold her light, that he’ll only eclipse her. She doesn’t think a Templar could ever look at her that way.

All of the things they’ve done, the time they’ve spent together—sparring, talking and discovering the deep in each other over meals, when she used to deliver his withdraw tea and stay and talk with him for hours about books, the world, the Circles, _life_ —feels like sand slipping through shaking fingers.

She’s drowning, feels like dying. She _wants_ to die, she can’t take it anymore. She feels so alone. She went to the Chantry the night before they marched on the Breach and prayed she would succeed, but that the great mouth in the sky would swallow her whole. _She prayed to die_. She’s all rage and pain and despair and she’s so _loud_. I only want to help. But now, there may not be time.

Cullen watches in agony as Margo agrees to sacrifice herself so the people of Haven can escape. He makes to follow, but she’s put a force field up over the Chantry door—partly to protect them while they escape and partly so no one will follow. He punches the door in rage and stands there for a few moments until the Nightingale calls to him. She’s sad, too—her sorrow is a heavy blanket over herself, the only thing that’s keeping her warm in the cold feelings. He just wants to protect her, cherish her, prove her worth to her—and _he failed_. He failed something precious.

Outside, she’s slowly accepting her death with morose joy. It will finally be over. _The pain will finally end_. Even better that her death will serve. Have to help the rest of them escape, but I can feel her pain and torment and the black tendrils of poisonous self-hatred in her body slowly fading as we move further away into the mountains.

The Nightingale moves to loose a flaming arrow into the sky, to let their hero know it’s safe to fall. Cullen stares at her with heavy eyes, holding out his hand—a final move to let her know that _he’s there_. Even if she doesn’t know it’s him. _Please, Maker, let her survive. Bring her back to me. I swear, I will never leave her side again. She will never want for anything ever again._ He thinks it shouldn’t have taken _this_ for him to swear that he will be vigilant about treating all mages with the respect they deserve. He should’ve worked harder to heal. He should’ve _done better_. Maker, he cannot lose her—even though he already was, even though she was already drowning, he wants to tear his hair out as he watches the avalanche bury Haven—bury her.

I can’t feel her anymore. But I don’t think that means she’s dead. But the hidden tears that the Templar sheds for her immediately freeze on his face in the howling wind and snow. He hopes no one notices, but the Nightingale’s eyes are keen. Cullen won’t let her close, but she stays close by the ambassador’s side, extending her blanket of sorrow to keep them both warm. Her inner circle, and all of Haven, walk solemnly on. There’s nothing more we can do. Roderick’s regret is almost as loud as Margo’s despair was before I stopped hearing her.

The Seeker gives the Commander pitying eyes as he insists they leave the remnants of the campfires for Margo to find later on, _when_ she follows them. He’s desperate, panicking and praying that the Maker will listen. _Please, Maker, I must atone. I must make sure she’s safe, I must make sure she lives and heals and I swear, I will never leave her side again, I care about her so damn much, she’s so much more than just a friend now—_

But will she even forgive him, if she lives? He abandoned her in her hour of need. Will she even let him close again, if she survives? _No, WHEN she survives. She has to. I need her to_. He needs to see those ocean-colored eyes staring back at him every day, he lives to see her face. He just wants her to smile again.

Hours pass after the camp has been built and he stands ever-vigilant at the edge. Teetering, tottering, his soul screaming out for hers. A bond has been formed now that cannot be broken. It can be bent and twisted and is hanging on by a thread—but it’s still there. Their souls recognize and need each other.

He doesn’t care how far out in the knee-deep water he has to swim to find her. His world is cold without her. Easy to imagine that it’s so cold, that the water froze over into snow and ice, like the knee-deep snow he’s wading through now. The wind carries his voice away as he calls her name, and he can only pray it’s carrying it out to her, guiding her to him. He had been carrying a lantern, to make sure she saw him, but it sputtered out within seconds. He prays her own inner flame has not done the same. Wind is tearing at his cloak and hair, but he doesn’t care.  He just wants her.

Cries of joy and familiar stinging at the back of his eyes as a green spurt of light illuminates the snow several feet ahead, along with a familiar voice calling his name. The lantern is long forgotten in the snow as he runs to her, their souls singing for each other as he catches her before she can fall. Quickly transferring his own cloak to her, he cradles her against his chest, telling her he’s here before she falls unconscious. A kiss to their forehead, touching cheeks before the others catch up with him. Scooping her up, cradling her against his chest as tenderly as he can as he sprints towards the healers’ tent. _Maker, please let me make it in time, please, Maker, please, please please…_


End file.
